The Bollard Boys
by wwheeljack
Summary: 'I think it's this land that makes the men, as much as the other way around.' Life in New Austin wasn't for everyone, a tough, live by your teeth, lifestyle that makes men stronger or breaks them down. And that is no exception for the members of the cattle rustling Bollard Twins Gang. A look into the personalties of the Bollard Twins Gang and their lives as a family and criminals.
1. Family (Harry Dobbing)

**An unnecessary romp into** _ **Red Dead Redemption**_ **with a small story about some of my favorite characters in the game.**

 **This will be a collection of random writings all based around the minor characters of** _ **Red Dead Redemption**_ **.**

 **RDR © Rockstar Gaming.**

* * *

 **1910**

Rain pelted at the canvas of the tent, wind cutting through the thin walls with ruthless abandon that left Harry Dobbing shivering. Harry was stuck in the main camp of Pike's Basin with the rest of the Bollard Twins Gang, and it had not taken long for the rain and winds to hit the vast canyon. Harry hated staying the night in Pike's Basin during storms as he was always quick to worry about flash floods hitting the canyon, even as unlikely that happening was.

A drawn out sigh escaped Harry's mouth as another shrill howl of wind, accompanied by the continuing dredge of rain, knifed through the canyon, leaving a shudder of nerves to crawl down Harry's spine along with the sigh. He detested the shrieks that the canyon walls produced with strong enough winds, and how unnatural and animal each howl of wind sounded. And now he was stuck in the canyon for the whole night while a storm raged overhead. _Perfect_...

Harry grumbled to himself than shifted into his sleeping roll further, pulling the wool bedding tighter against his body as he attempted to form a comfortable place in his bedding against the stiff mattress and bed frame he slept on. For all his shifting about, Harry still found no more warmth than his bedroll already offered, and quietly he chided himself for not preparing his canvas tent - his home within the Basin - properly with extra blankets. Even his thick nightshirt did little to keep him warm with the wind and rain cutting through every corner of the canyon. Harry shifted in his bedroll twice more than gave up, gaze shifting to the top of the canvas tent and the pole that supported the frame of the tent. He watched as the storm winds tore at the white canvas, beating the sturdy material with seeming fury, fury that left Harry slightly surprised his tent could withstand such an onslaught of wind and rain.

 _Have to thank Irvin for that_ , Harry realized, a small smile pulling at his lips as his thoughts turned to Irvin Pennick, a reliable, sarcastic and yet caring member of the gang. Irvin had always had a penchant for making each tent in the Basin as sturdy as possible, and the older man's work showed in how Harry's tent still stood under such a continuous force of wind and rain. Harry could almost hear Irvin grumbling irritably about 'poor workmanship' and 'proper' ways of building the tents so they would stand under a variety of conditions; and Harry was thankful for all of the grumbling and irritability that spilled from Irvin while he set to reconstructing each tent every year.

Another sharp, howling gust of wind snapped Harry from his thoughts, leaving a gritted frown to set against his face as Harry's tent shook under the strain of wind and rain. Though knowing that sleep was a far possibility for him, Harry still tried to tune out the screams of wind and pounding of rain but to no avail, unsurprisingly. Eye rolling, Harry shifted in his bed roll for a moment than slowly slipped out from the semi-warm bedding, a wince tuning through his body as his feet touched the freezing ground as Harry stood. He knew he couldn't sleep and, considering how useless attempting to sleep would be, figured a patrol around Pike's Basin's border would be a good use of his time.

Harry slowly pulled on his socks and boots, relieving himself momentarily from the bitter cold ground, but only for the time being. Turning to his right, Harry glanced down at his small - pathetically small, really - pine wood dresser where he stored what few articles of clothing he owned. Harry pulled out a black jacket and a stained waistcoat with a white front and shiny black leather backing, along with a pair of dark maroon pants that were stitched together at the waist with a black pair of chaps, placing the jacket, waistcoat and pants neatly on his bedroll so he could remove his nightshirt before dressing in his usual clothing. Once Harry had pulled the nightshirt off, he slipped into his pants and pulled the material till it fit snugly against his waist. After checking the snugness of his pants, Harry picked us the jacket from his bedroll and slipped his arms into the long sleeves of his jacket before pulling the jacket over his head. Harry tugged at the sleeves of his jacket, ensuring that they were tight against his shoulders and then he tucked the bottom of his jacket into the bordering waist of his pants. With his black jacket snug against his chest, Harry unbuttoned the front of his waistcoat and pulled the waistcoat over his jacket and then buttoned the material together to the best of his his ability.

Once Harry had buttoned his waistcoat, he kneeled to the third and lowest drawer in his small dresser and pulled out a dark duster coat he wore only for occasions in which storms were tearing through the canyon and New Austin. Harry never liked the heavy material of his duster coat and how it seemed to drag at his broad shoulders and slowed his movement, nor did he appreciate how warm he got under the duster coat even after only riding or walking for a few minutes, but he for once was looking forward to the inevitable warmth he would feel whilst wearing the heavy duster coat. For as much as Harry disliked the heavy duster coat and how if fit in him, he still greatly preferred wearing it over not during storms.

Satisfied with how the duster coat nearly covered his entire body, Harry turned to the pine dresser one last time. Resting on top of the dresser was his holster belt, which he wore slipped against his left hip, and an aged, leather eyepatch. Harry first picked up his holster and unbuckled it, fitting the black leather against his hip as he buckled the belt with a sharp tug at the holster, which had his revolver fitted into it snugly. Satisfied, Harry picked up the leather eyepatch and then hesitated, lowering the eyepatch to the dresser for a moment.

He'd lost his eye when he was eleven when a knife had been drug through the left side of his face, rending his eye so damaged that a doctor from Plainview had had to remove Harry's left eye entirely, which had left a gaping hole in Harry's eye socket now devoid of an eye. The doctor had quickly covered the empty eye socket with a black leather eyepatch, both for the poorly healed wound's well-being - the doctor had warned him of how easily infected the area where his eye used to be could get if not properly cared for - and so people would not stare so freakishly at the wound. Harry utterly despised how people stared at him - at his eyepatch - as if his eyepatch made the locals believe he was an unnatural freak, as if that was the only part of him any of them could notice - and notice with disgust, of course. Even the criminals at Thieves' Landing stared at him occasionally, though he noticed they always tried to act like none of them were looking at his eyepatch specifically, usually muttering something about how everyone of them found the Bollards far too 'clean' for criminals. He hated it. He'd rather people not stare and just leave him alone, but that wasn't going to happen any time soon.

Drowning his mind of his bitter thoughts, Harry rubbed at his cheek, a frown curling at his lips as he felt the deep scar that cut down from his eye socket and ended nearly at his jaw. The scar was long healed but still deep and very noticeable as a knife given scar. The only good thing that came from having such a noticeable scar was that people rarely if ever noticed how his entire left cheek had sunken in beneath the scar, leaving a strange hollowness to his face. Yet it wasn't the scar, the ghoulish sunken in cheek or even the stares he got from having an eyepatch that he hated most of all, it was what no one else but he could see that haunted Harry the most. He could never admit to his team how the loss of his eye had left a lasting mental scar within him that he had no way to heal.

Harry hated to even think what his teammates would think of him were he to tell them how deeply insecure and afraid he was, something he forced himself to always keep hidden behind a cold, confident facade that seemed to have tricked his teammates into thinking he really _was_ as confident and sure of himself as he made it seem. The eyepatch to Harry was much more than just a cover for his wound - the severity of which he kept secret from his team, whom he had all convinced he was merely just blind and hated people staring at the ghosted film over his left eye - but a cover to his insecurity, fears and lack of confidence.

Shaking his head with a quiet growl, Harry chased away his thoughts and once again picked up the black eyepatch, slipping the material over the his empty eye socket and fitting the band beneath his hair and against his head. Teeth gritting Harry bent and picked up his boots, black with sharp, silver steel spurs, shaking each for precaution before pulling both over his feet, stomping each foot in turn to make sure his feet were properly set within the boots.

Harry glanced over his attire, making sure each article of clothing was properly fitted and snug against his body, including the heavy duster coat and, satisfied with how each article fit, turned to the iron headboard of his bed frame where a brown leather bowler hat sat propped against one jutting spite of the headboard along with an aged red kerchief . Harry picked up the hat, which had a tannish-white band wrapped around the base of the crown of the hat, and pulled the hat into his head, shifting his right hand up to his messy dark brown hair to shift strands of the unruly mess of his hair to respectable flatness beneath his hat. Once he had his hat affixed neatly to his head, Harry pulled the red kerchief from its resting place and pulled it tight against his neck, under his stubbled chin, and tied the ends together to the left and at the nape of his neck. Harry shifted his duster coat slightly on his shoulders - he could already feel the heavy material dragging at his shoulders - and slowly pushed aside the left flap of his tent to a biting sting of wind and rain hitting his face.

Sighing defeatedly, Harry shook his head and moved out of his tent, shifting the long, heavy duty duster coat closet to himself as Harry walked up to the extinguished fire pit in the middle of the basin camp. Surrounding the fire pit in a haphazard semi-circle were six other canvas tents exactly akin to Harry's tent - even to the specific tidiness imparted upon them by Irvin - which housed the eight other members of the Bollard Twins Gang within each.

 _Maybe I should check on the kids before_ , Harry thought, eye shifting to the two middle tents where the four youngest members of the team slept every night. Harry walked up to the tent closer to the fire pit, hesitantly pulling one side of the canvas flap open to peer inside of the tent to the reassuring sight of two sleeping forms curled up on cots inside the tent. Harry moved the tent flap further to his side and then walked into the tent, letting the tent flap fall behind him. Quietly, Harry walked in between the two cots, glancing to the cot on his right first.

Werner Cobb was curled into a tight, shivering ball on top of his aged mattress, his faded sheets - tattered with age and wear - were crumpled at the foot of Werner's cot, leaving him completely uncovered from the cold. Harry sighed and gently grabbed the crumpled sheets, unfurling them and slowly pulling the thin fabric over Werner's small frame. Werner let out a soft sound as Harry finished tucking the sheets against Werner's body, but Harry could still see the young man shivering noticeably.

"Wait here a second," Harry muttered, more to himself than to the sleeping Werner, and quickly exited the tent, heading back to his tent with the wind and rain still biting at him. Harry shivered as he entered his tent and walked to his bed, pulling his own bedroll from his bed and hefting it under his duster coat, hoping that he could keep the bedding dry from the rain. Harry left his tent and scurried to the tent where Werner slept, slowing once he entered the tent. Shaking the rain from his shoulders, Harry once again approached Werner, pulling his bedroll out from where he had stuffed it into his duster coat and slowly rolled the thick bedding open. As Werner continued to shiver, Harry slowly shifted Werner into his sleeping roll, gently pulling Werner's legs into the bedding as Harry shifted one arm under the young man's body and lifted him so Harry was able to pull his sleeping roll all the way up to Werner's chin.

Once Harry had situated Werner into his sleeping roll, Harry once again pulled Werner's sheets over the young man and then, with a small exhalation of air, Harry scuffled Werner's sun streaked blond hair and then turned to the second cot in the room.

Snoring softly, his broad shoulders shifting with each sleepy breath, curled into his sleeping roll and covered with numerous frayed blankets, was Pinky Wilson. Pinky was the second oldest of the four newest recruits - the 'kids' as Irvin had dubbed them when the four had joined the gang - and was also one of the more easygoing members of the team. Harry valued the young man's calm attitude, the ease with which Pinky was able to sooth situations and arguments within the gang. Smiling, Harry left Pinky and Werner's tent, ducking against the unrelenting wind and rain as he headed to the second tent.

The second tent was a sharp contrast to Pinky and Werner's tent, if only because of the untidy mess on the left side of the tent where Charlie Mash slept; his boots, horse tack, hat and clothes strewn over the floor around his cot. Maurice Sweet, the other occupant of the shared tent, tidiness was stark contrast to that of Charlie's side of the tent, which always made Harry chuckle. Harry approached Charlie first, noting how the young man had curled into a defensive ball, his mouth set in a hard, tense snarl that made obvious the stress Charlie was feeling.

Heart aching for the young man, Harry slowly sat next to Charlie in his bed and placed a soothing hand on Charlie's shoulders.

"Breathe, Charlie, you're safe," Harry quietly assured, his grip tightening slightly as Charlie shifted in his bed violently. Harry watched as Charlie twisted in his bed, brown hair slick with sweat and pained words slurring from his mouth, concern mounting in Harry's heart at the fretful state of the young man.

Not knowing what to do, Harry did only what he could think of, and gently pulled Charlie close to his chest, arms wrapping around Charlie in a comforting gesture. Charlie's twitching and muttering soon began to ease, the young man shifting into Harry's gentle hug instinctively - an act that drew a small smile to Harry's face. He cared deeply for the family Harry had found within the Bollards Twins Gang, and he could not help but feel an indisputable need to care and protect his gangmates, both in fights and from their own personal demons.

Charlie shifted closer to Harry, a sleepy sigh of contentment escaping from the young man as Harry gently brushed a hand through the kid's hair, a distant smile curving across his mouth as he looked down at the young 'hardened' criminal curled against him, muttering sleepily under his breath.

"Harry?" A voice, rough from sleep, pulled Harry from his thoughts, his head turning to the right to the sight of Maurice - his brown hair a mess and eyes half shut with sleep - staring at him.

"Yes, Maurice?" Harry asked, his attention shifting between Charlie, who was still snuggled against him, and the young man staring at him from across the tent.

Maurice did not speak at first, which immediately drew concern from Harry as Maurice was usually quick to speak and hardly ever was at a loss for words, and then the young man relented finally with a tired sigh. "I- I had another nightmare," Maurice admitted, pain etched into his face and in the set of his jaw and clenched fists as he spoke.

Maurice did not wait for Harry to speak, as he let out another stressed sigh and shifted into a seated position on his bed. "I can't sleep for the nightmares, Harry…" Maurice's voice was soft - scared - and laid a heaviness on Harry's chest as the normally brash and controlled Maurice continued to shift nervously and avoid Harry's gaze. "I thought i'd left him behind when I was a kid, but I _can't_ …"

Harry sighed and slowly moved Charlie away from him, tucking the young man back into his own sleeping roll and then covering him with the blankets on his mattress before approaching Maurice's side of the tent. Maurice watched Harry and shifted to his right, clearing and leaving a spot on the old mattress where Harry could sit next to the younger man. Harry did so and turned to Maurice, an unspoken, prying question floating between both of them.

Maurice broke the distance between himself and Harry when he suddenly wrapped his arms around Harry and buried his face into Harry's shoulder, the younger man's smaller frame pressed against Harry without Maurice's typical reproach. Harry stiffened, taken aback by Maurice's uncharacteristic closeness for a brief moment before he returned Maurice's gesture by pulling the younger man into a gentle, questionless hug.

"I'm here Maurice, I'm not leaving," Harry breathed softly, "I won't leave you."

Maurice said nothing in response, instead opting to wrap his arms around Harry in a tighter hug before he whispered a soft thank you. Harry looked down at the young man, someone who Harry considered family, and gave him a small shake of his head. He figured his proposed idea of taking a night watch ride would have to wait, not that Harry saw an issue with that. Not when one of his family was so obviously in need of companionship. His family came first— always.

"It's nothing, Maurice. You know I will always be here for you."

* * *

 **The Bollards are a complicated mess of a team but each one of the characters has endeared themselves to me immensely since I started researching them this February. The characters are based off the personalities gleaned off of their quotes and my own interpretation of how the act, the actions they take and how they speak.**


	2. Father (Julius Grimes)

**I love writing dysfunctional families that love each other (Bollards) and how the boys would treat each other in such an environment as the early 1900s.**

 **RDR © Rockstar Gaming.**

* * *

 **1920**

He hadn't meant to scare the child, not this child. Not the child of his best friend - his best friend who had died before ever even meeting his son - but he had and now the shy son of his best friend was shaken and avoiding him, hiding underneath the kitchen counter while staring nervously at Julius. And all because he had overreacted to a sound in the middle of the night from the kitchen that had woken him from his sleep, a sound that had turned out to be the child looking for food.

"Harry..." Julius looked at the young child, a feeling of frustration wiggling into his heart as the dark haired child ducked even further from him beneath the kitchen counter. "Hey, it's okay. I was just scared, that's the only reason I had my shotgun. Please… I would never hurt you."

The child watched him, bright blue eyes snapping to the hand Julius had slowly snaked towards the child then back to his face, nervousness reflected in Harry's eyes.

"It's okay… I wasn't going to hurt you, child. Please come out from there? Please?" Julius asked again, unable to hide the irritation that had snuck into his voice as the child continued to refuse to budge from where he was huddled.

Julius sighed and gestured silently for the young boy to come to him but, with a shake of his head and a very soft "no", the child again refused him. Julius narrowed his eyes at the child and gestured for the child to come to him again, this time unable to hide the anger rippling through his body.

"Harry," Julius snapped, "get out from under there. I don't have all night for this game. Get out from under the counter and come here. You need to sleep."

Harry's soft eyes widened at Julius' angered order, fear coursing over his face as the young dark red haired child scrambled backwards from Julius, cornered like a cat underneath the counter. Julius narrowed his eyes - he had never liked games, and found it even more aggravating when people did not listen to him and directly disobeyed him, even if it was a young five year old child.

"Now, Harry," Julius hissed, his tone cold and ruthless as he stared the child down and gestured to the child to join Julius at his side again. "Now."

Harry let out a soft sound, almost a squeak, of fear and scrambled his back to the wall he had pressed himself against, head shaking as Julius continued to stare him down. Julius snarled and slammed a fist into the counter, anger - he did not like being disobeyed - clawing at his chest as Harry continued to refuse his orders.

"You will listen to me Harry, or else I will have to punish you! I do not tolerate disobedience in my house and you are disobeying me. Now get out from under the counter or I will pull you out!"

The young child gasped at Julius' threat, his soft blue eyes widening in terror as small, pathetic squeaks escaped his mouth. "D-dad-

"Silence! You _will_ listen to me, Harry, and come out from there!" Julius roared - he was angry but also scared because he had almost killed this young child only minutes ago - his frustration climaxing into the rage and anger he projected towards the child.

"I will not-" Before Julius could continue his angered tirade a weak sound from the young child stopped him mid-sentence.

"I'm scared," Harry squeaked, his posture curling into a fearful submission to Julius' rage; the child had ducked his gaze away from Julius, unwilling to make eye contact with Julius, his shoulder turned to Julius and he was shaking, never once looking at Julius.

A posture identical to his father, to Julius's best friend, Harry, whom his son had been named after. He'd seen the submissive posture from Harry whenever anyone from the Bollard Twins Gang - Julius felt that familiar ache of longing in his chest every time he thought of the team, his family, that had been shattered and swept away to who knows where - had turned their anger on him. Harry would look away, leaving his blind side to his team as everyone of the Bollards would rag on the man they had all called their leader, Harry never once fighting back against his team's anger as they blamed him for everything that went wrong with the team. One of their own injured, even if by their own fault? Harry's fault. A hard, merciless winter where they lacked food and nearly starved? Harry's fault for poor planning and preparation. And Harry would take the blame without question or argument - always quietly saying he was at fault, even when he wasn't - and no one in the team had ever questioned it. Harry had always seemed so easy to vent their frustrations and anger on, as he never once complained or said anything in his own defense; the only thing Harry would ever say was a hushed apology after each member finished venting their anger onto Harry's broad shoulders, as if Harry believed everyone's anger towards him was justified and he deserved their anger.

Now all Julius could see now as he thought back to his friend was how submissive - _weak…_ that was how everyone had seen Harry - Harry always was to his team, accepting everything wrong as his fault, and how he never seemed to vent his own frustrations on anyone as they did on Harry. _Harry only cared about our - his team's - needs, never his own. He wasn't weak… just… afraid of what he assumed we would do if there wasn't someone so easy to blame as he gave us. All he ever talked about was how 'he had let down the team', how it was his 'fault' for everything bad that happened to us. Why though?_

Julius still could not understand the reason Harry had always been so quiet and quick to shoulder all of the team's problems, and he never would… He could never talk to his best friend again, nor see how Harry's eye would brighten with a cautious hope whenever someone complimented him or even just said a cheery 'hello' to him. Never again would Julius hear Harry's high laugh as the team sat around a campfire, or see how Harry seemed much younger than he was the very few times a soft, hesitant smile would curve at the corner of Harry's mouth. Julius - and his team, wherever they had all scattered to - would never see their Harry, hear his soft, reassuring teasing, and never again would Julius get to wrap his arms around his best friend and give Harry a quiet hug.

Guilt, anger, frustration and sadness waged war inside Julius as he watched Harry's son shiver in the corner underneath the counter, the exact posture his father had adopted whenever someone in the gang had turned their anger on him. And it was all because Julius had shoved his sawed-off shotgun against the child's stomach as he had been harmlessly rooting for food in the cabinet above the stove.

"Harry…" Julius was surprised by the soft nervousness that came from him, his gruff voice unused to such a different tone of voice - almost as much as Julius was unaccustomed to hearing genuine softness from himself.

Harry looked up at Julius nervously as he said his name, his blue eyes darting to Julius' face than averting to the ground again in a nervous, submissive gesture.

"Hey… Harry… child? I really am sorry I scared you. I- I was scared too. I thought somebody had come inside here, I thought they could have had intentions to hurt you. I was just scared. I love you and I would never hurt you. Ever."

Harry watched Julius for a little longer than slowly began to move, his gaze still averted from Julius as he wrenched at his hands nervously and ducked his head even tighter against his chest, the young child finally emerging out from under the counter. Harry looked at Julius then whispered a very shaky apology before he averted his gaze again and turned his head away from Julius. Julius stifled the rush of pain choking at his throat and eyes as the young child mimicked his father's submissive posture, shoulders tucking into himself as the young child nervously glanced at Julius and then the ground, and all because Julius had no ability to control his temper.

"Harry- _son_ ," Julius whispered as he gently, softly - nervously - picked Harry up and turned the young child's face towards his, glancing down into Harry's bright blue eyes, "I'm sorry. I made a mistake and I scared you. I should not have snapped at you… you were just scared, and I never want to scare you - to harm you. I love you, son, I want you to know that. Please?"

Harry looked up at him slowly as Julius spoke, his eyes judging for a moment before he spoke in the soft, gentle tone the child always had. "I love you too, Dad."

Julius pulled the child into a tight hug against his chest, tears streaming down his face as he felt Harry's small, delicate arms wrap around Julius's chest and the strange feeling of the young child burying his face against Julius's chest. Slowly, Julius brushed one hand down the child's back, muttering quiet sounds of reassurance as Harry shifted ever tighter against Julius's chest.

Julius would not - _could not_ \- hurt this child - the only thing that remained of his best friend - not like how he and the rest of the team had so obviously ignored the pain and stress of their Harry when they had turned their unwarranted and unjustified anger onto the man whom they had never themselves listened to. Julius regretted only now realizing and seeing how much hurt their - _his_ \- Harry had been under until the day he died, how every moment he spent with his team made Harry feel like he had to do everything to care for them… even if it meant putting the strain of their anger and hatred, their zealous denial of their own faults, onto Harry. None of them had ever even asked Harry how he was feeling, even if Harry was more subdued in his words and actions around them than was normal for Harry, or if somebody caught him curled tight into himself, pain etched over his face and in his voice. None of the team had ever noticed when Harry was feeling down or upset - Julius knew it was because they never even thought that Harry could be anything _but_ a willing verbal punching for his team - and yet Harry had noticed their pain and anger every single time and would always open himself to their's so they could place blame on anyone but on themselves.

 _Harry loved us so much, he feared he'd lose us. He must have thought doing what he did, absorbing everyone's pain and anger, taking blame for everything, apologizing for everything that went even remotely wrong with the team, he could think of nothing else to do but that. I should have seen his agony as he saw ours… but it's too late. I can never apologize for how I treated my best friend, but I at least can try and make it up to him by taking care of his son._

Julius looked down at the child - a younger, shyer, near-spitting image of his father - and gently ran one hand through the child's dark red hair before he pulled the child close to his chest and buried his face into Harry's soft hair. "I love you, Harry."

 _Both of you._

* * *

 **The more time one spends with the boys (my nickname for the Bollards), the more you will see how deep each character's personality and quirks goes. I tried to show a side of Harry that only is shown occasionally through his quotes in this drabble.**

 **This is a version of my post-1914 Red Dead Redemption universe where the Bollards were sieged and scattered in January of 1915. Harry died in this attack and everyone else made it out alive (Harry sacrificed himself to get time for his friends to escape from the lawmen's assault), and eventually Julius ran into a woman who explained that she and Harry had been in a relationship before he'd died and she'd had a child. She died when little Harry was two and so Julius took the child in and raised him as his own son. He loves the child but has had no experience with caring for one so young and delicate as young Harry, so Julius makes mistakes in how he treats the child often.**


	3. Hunt (Maurice Sweet)

**Maurice is my second favorite Bollard (behind Harry) and he is an absolute darling character. Angry but very sweet.**

* * *

 **1907**

"Where are we going, Slink?" Charlie Mash berated from the back of the small group creeping along the tall scrub bushes just above the San Luis River, his petulant tone grating at Maurice Sweet's nerves. Charlie had been with Maurice's gang for only half a year and yet Maurice already could not stand the younger man, especially since Charlie always seemed to have something to complain about - be it the weather, his chore for the day or even something as inconsequential as to the time of day. Charlie wasn't always the resident Bollard whiner but, to Maurice, Charlie always seemed to fill the role, be it intentional or not. And that served to only irritate Maurice more as he slunk between the bushes following Slink Bradshaw, a tall, well built member of their gang who was presently sneaking through the thick brush without a word in their direction.

Charlie huffed moodily as Slink continued to ignore his questions, a grumbled 'damn him' escaping his lips as Slink crept out of Maurice and Charlie's vision and earshot. Maurice halted and peered around their surroundings, scanning for the familiar dark flit of Slink creeping through brush, stopping only when he found no sign of the older man nearby. _Where is he?_

"Where'd he go? Isn't Slink supposed to stay with his team? Not wander off like this? Does he even care that we are supposed to stick together as a team?" Charlie asked Maurice loudly, the sharp snap of Charlie's question yanking Maurice from his attempts to spot their elusive friend. Maurice rolled his eyes and glared at Charlie, who noticed and then crossed his arms over his chest with a grumpy _huff_ before turning his gaze away from Maurice.

"You know we are hunting, right? Slink knows what he's doing, we just have to keep track of him," Maurice said slowly, frustrated at Charlie's seeming inability to think before speaking. Charlie glared at Maurice, and openly sighed in frustration at Maurice's response.

"Yeah, but he shouldn't leave us-"

"If it upsets you so much, Charlie, you can go home. You don't have to stick around with us. Harry just wanted you to come along since you are new to the team, he isn't requiring that you stay," Maurice suggested to the younger man, his sarcastic remark earning him a dark glare from Charlie as Maurice continued to scan for Slink's whereabouts.

Charlie stuttered behind Maurice than shoved in front of Maurice, a look of angered bewilderment flashing through his dark eyes as he glared at Maurice, and gestured around at the empty expanse around them. "Slink shouldn't leave us alone-"

Maurice scoffed and walked past Charlie, ignoring the plaintiff shout from the kid as he headed down the small slope, eyes still watching for any hint of Slink as he approached a run down cabin on the edge of the San Luis River. The clatter of rocks - and a startled swear - told Maurice of Charlie's haphazard arrival near him as Maurice glanced around the cabin's property suspiciously.

Relief loosened his shoulders as he spotted nothing out of the ordinary - aside from Charlie scampering about Brittlebrush Trawl like the fool he was - around the river cabin, though he still couldn't find Slink worth a damn in the pitch darkness of a new moon. A loud snort of breath snapped Maurice's gaze to Charlie, who had skidded next to him and was bouncing on his heels excitedly as the young teenager scanned around the Trawl.

"Does he always do this, Maury?" Charlie asked him, the nickname Charlie spoke grating against Maurice like burning metal.

"It's _Maurice_ ," he warned, venom dripping from his voice as he shot Charlie a glare. Charlie seemed oblivious to the glare and only continued to look around curiously, his anticipation clear.

Suddenly Charlie stopped moving and stared, his head tilting as he peered out into a spread of trees and bushes closer to the roots. "Slink?" Charlie question drew Maurice's full attention to the small copse of trees ahead of them and to the shape moving towards them.

The shape gave them a wave as it moved closer and, for a few moments, Maurice felt a smile tug at his lips. _That crazy bastard-_

There was no warning, no shout nor mocking words to the bullet that suddenly whizzed past Maurice's face, slamming into the cabin wall behind him with a solid _thwack_. "Not Slink!" Maurice barked as he shoved Charlie behind a stack of boxes before he himself dove into cover behind a barrel filled with rainwater.

Bullets were now cutting through the air near Maurice with ceaseless abandon, some hitting dangerously close to the barrel he was hiding behind. Gritting his teeth, Maurice peered around the barrel, heart sinking as his eyes made out the dark forms of six men. He and Charlie were outnumbered and Maurice had his misgivings about Charlie's worth in a gunfight, so he knew the two of them were screwed. But he wasn't going down without a damned fierce fight. No one messed with a Bollard and made it out unscathed, _no one_.

Without paying anymore heed to Charlie, Maurice quickly returned fire towards the six figures, a yelp of pain confirming his aim was true. "Shoot them, Charlie!" Maurice roared as the attention of all six men turned solely to him and his small spot of cover, bullets shredding past him until one hit true and tore through Maurice's shoulder.

Maurice stumbled backwards slightly at the forceful impact, pain blistering up through his shoulder to his entire body like a wildfire on a hot July afternoon. Snarling, Maurice returned fire, a quick smile crossing his face when he heard a shriek of pain rip through the air. _He'd got one-_

His gaze wheeled to his left, ice chilling him to the core as he looked at the source of the pained shriek laying on the ground just a few feet from him. Charlie was breathing heavily and clawing at his chest, a howl of pain tearing from the younger Bollards thin body as he continued to thrash and squirm in pain.

Fury blinded Maurice to everything but the six men quickly encroaching on his and Charlie's positions, a snarl being the only warning to his enemies as Maurice took careful aim and fired into the moving mass of shapes. One let out a blood-curdling scream as one of Maurice's bullets hit true, that shape dropping to the ground quickly. But one was not enough. Maurice continued to fire at his enemies, drawing the attention of the remaining five men to him and not his injured teammate, his anger holding at bay the pain roaring through his body as his enemies' bullets hit their mark as true as Maurice's had.

A bullet hit Maurice in the side, lodging into his ribs with a sucking gasp of desperate pain and fury. He had to fight, he had to- Maurice's vision swam, fingers loosening on the revolver in his hand as he attempted to stay upright against the barrel, hands clawing desperately at the rim of the water filled barrel to keep him on his feet.

"Naive fool," the voice was high and cold, a simpering laugh curling off the words as one of the remaining figures bent down and looked Maurice in the eye.

He could not recognize the man's features - be it for the pain blinding him or a lack of familiarity in general - but still he snarled at the man as he grasped at Maurice's hair and pulled his head back.

"Look at this one boys, still a fighter! Let's-"

The man's words cut into a gurgle as hot blood spilled onto Maurice's shoulder, his gaze snapping to the man whose fingers were slipping from his hair. The man's eyes were wide as he slowly fingered at the hole in his throat, hot blood gurgling in his throat as the man's body collapsed besides Maurice.

Without needing a second thought, Maurice lunged for his revolver and continued to fire at the remaining four men, hitting some and missing some for the pain quickly taking over his vision. Finally, after what seemed excruciating minutes, Maurice saw the four enemies fall and then, almost moments later, he felt warm, comforting hands on his arm and back.

"Easy Maurice." The rough accent was recognizable instantly, a faint smile fighting at his lips as Maurice slumped forward into the broad, warm chest of Slink. "Dammit, they are going to kill me for this, Maurice…"

Maurice coughed and then chuckled faintly as Slink's hands hurried over his injuries. "Charlie?"

"He's going to be okay. You too, Maurice, " Slink assured him, his tone dead serious and clear with belief as the older Bollard continued to tend to Maurice's wounds.

"Good," Maurice sighed as a wave of tired darkness washed over him and he soon could see nothing but darkness. He never once thought to question where Slink had vanished to… not in his state.

* * *

 **Guest, thank you! ;)**

 **Maury cares, even for dumb fools like Charlie.**


	4. Fall Classic (Charlie Mash)

**Charlie's a hothead and I am thoroughly convinced he was Rockstar's favorite criminal in game, considering he appears so much and has so many special lines.**

 **Dumb child.**

* * *

 **1911**

There was no joy in Charlie's heart as he passed beneath the small, sparsely decorated arch that lead into Rathskeller Fork, his gaze lingering on the flaxen-maned stallion and its rider ahead of him. He could not explain the bitterness in his heart nor the hate he felt towards his own ineptitude as he slowed the buckskin gelding beneath him and passed the rider and his dark stallion who had so quickly won the annual Rathskeller Fork race. The rider did not even glance at Charlie as he passed, his attention seeming miles away from the race and - for a fleeting moment - Charlie swore he recognized the man, but only for that moment.

Charlie dismounted the buckskin, his hand stroking down the neck of the exhausted creature as his attention drew once again to the rider who had so clearly won the race, now being approached by the race caller, Clay Pettiford, with a large knapsack filled with the purse for the race. There was never any prize for second or third in New Austin and yet Charlie could not help but feel anger course through his veins as the rider took the offered bag and rode away without even acknowledging his fellow riders and competitors to the race. Even the smuggest racers would normally greet and acknowledge their fellow races but not this rider, and that set a brewing rage deep in Charlie's chest.

Glowering, Charlie turned back to the exhausted buckskin near him and, with a gentleness he reserved only for horses, gave the animal a gentle scratch on the neck. He'd been so close to winning the race, so _damned_ close, and then the mysterious rider had swept past at the last furlong after Charlie'd been leading the race from the first moment. His buckskin had been unable to pace the burst of speed the rider's stallion had and so Charlie had been left to settle for a diminished second. He wanted to blame his horse - which wasn't even _his_ horse as his palomino horse had come up lame just two days before - and, through the generosity of his teammate Pinky, he'd been gifted the buckskin - named Chip - for the race, but he knew he couldn't. Chip had done the best he could for Charlie during the race and he could never truly put blame on the horse for his loss.

"Sorry 'bout that one, boy," Charlie whispered as he loosened the saddle from the buckskin's back and pulled it away, leaving the horse to rest untacked as he prepared a small bag of grain for his mount. As Charlie affixed the feed bag to his horse's head, he pulled out a steel brush and set to brushing the animal's coat, both for himself and the horse. But, for all his brushing, Charlie was unable to purge the disappointment, frustration and insecurity clawing at his chest for his failure.

He'd spent considerable time preparing for this race, using monetary and physical resources - supplies his gang needed - to acquire entry into the race and participate in it to his best ability. And now he had nothing to show for it but an exhausted horse. He hated losing races - one of the few things he was remotely good at - and this one stung more than any other race loss. He'd been trying to win the annual Rathskellers race for the last few years and he had been close since he started but never as damned close as this year's race. _If it wasn't for that damned man. Arrogant bastard._

Not wishing to stick around Rathskeller Fork much longer than he needed to, Charlie quickly finished brushing his horse and tacked the horse back up, removing the grain bag from his face and storing it in a saddle bag. He mounted the buckskin, who's energy seemed to have perked back up after his rest and grain, and rode past the remaining men who had participated in that day's race. He gave a short nod to the group and then spurred his horse away from the town, cutting over the open desert as he urged Pinky's horse on faster.

Chip pricked his ears and trotted out as they rode, the setting sun setting the sky and land ablaze as horse and rider galloped towards Pike's Basin, towards their home.

* * *

The sun had set, leaving only the light of the stars and moons to guide Charlie as he approached the mouth of Pike's Basin, the canyon walls extending far above him as he urged the now tired buckskin into the deep canyon. He himself was tired, and the idea of having to explain away his loss to his team only served to leave an unwelcome irritation crawling down his spine. Charlie could already imagine the sneer Gus would give him, the disappointment in Irvin's eyes, the way Julius would just look at him briefly then ignore him. All of it hurt.

Charlie was relieved when he reached the Basin and saw only Harry and Maurice sitting around the fire, the others likely already asleep as he rode up to the corral and dismounted his mount. As he was untacking the buckskin, Charlie heard his name from behind him. Teeth gritting, Charlie turned to face the searching, one eyed gaze of Harry.

"Harry," Charlie greeted, a sigh escaping his mouth as Harry walked to the other side of Charlie's mount, the one eyed man starting to brush the horse.

Harry's silence drug at Charlie and he was soon unable to hold in his thoughts as he finished cleaning his horse's hooves. "I lost, again," he snarled, "this guy came out of nowhere and beat me in the final furlong. I would have had it by for him."

"So you placed second?" Harry's tone was not unpleasant, just curious and something else that Charlie did not have the ability to understand.

"Yes," Charlie growled unhappily, "I can't even win at the one thing I'm good at. And the bastard who won didn't even acknowledge the existence of his fellow races after."

Harry let out a contemplative sound then spoke again, "but you still finished well, correct? And on a horse that was not prepared like Echo had been for months for this race, correct?"

"Well, yes, when you put it that way," Charlie grumbled, "but I still lost."

"There is nothing wrong in losing Charlie. We think no less of you because you lost, what matters is the experience you got from this race and the fact you had fun. You had fun, did you not?"

"Yes…"

Harry came around Chip and then placed a gentle hand on Charlie's shoulder, a brief smile evident in his eye. "That's what matters, Charlie. Not the pain of losing but the fun you had. Never let loss be all you remember about something. Never."

Harry gave him a smile then walked away, leaving Charlie to stew on his thoughts.

* * *

 **Charlie's a sad, lonely boy who needs encouraging every once in awhile.**


	5. Cavalry (Gus Ballard)

**Gus is a jerk but a loyal jerk. I still don't like him that much though.**

 **RDR © Rockstar**

* * *

 **1909**

Thieves' Landing was never quiet, be it for the drunken rambling of fools or the sounds of arguing over poker or taunts during rounds of Liar's Dice. Either way, it all annoyed Gus to no imaginable end. He hated people, hated their stupidity and fake geniality, hated how almost every person who saw him gave him mocking looks or, worse of all, _sympathetic_ looks. He'd rather someone outright tell him their feelings then hide them behind a smile or a fake attempt at trying to make him like them. Gus enjoyed dragging people behind his horse for a reason, _damn them all_.

That was one thing Gus did have to admit he liked about his gang for, even with all of their arguing or stupid decisions, his gang never treated him differently or pretended to like him when they didn't. Gus knew that many of his teammates disliked him - he deserved it, admittedly, for how brash and arrogant he was to his own team - and none of them hid it from him.

 _At least they are honest_ , Gus grumbled to himself, his eyes shifting to the man man sitting across from him at the small table within Thieves' Landing saloon. Julius Grimes, the gang's de facto leader - along with Harry Dobbing, with the Twins, Ike and Willie Bollard, avoiding leading the gang for the last few years - was drinking a shot, a grimace cutting down the blonde man's face as he swallowed down the last sips of his drink.

"Damn," Julius swore, his voice slurring by fractions as he pushed the small shot glass away from him and turned his gaze to Gus, "not very like you to not finish your drink, Gus."

Gus grunted in response to Julius' statement, his gaze shifting to the small shot glass rested on the table in front of him which he'd only touched once so far. "Not interested today." Gus gave no more explanation to Julius, the blonde man shrugging at his response as a crooked, drunken smile tugged at his lips.

"Suit yourself Gus," Julius laughed as he slowly stood from where he'd been seated and, with a nod to Gus, walked out of the saloon.

Gus watched as Julius left, his eyes shifting to each person within the saloon, watching each man with wary intent. His gang had come to Thieves' Landing today in an attempt to change their surroundings for a time while rains soaked the canyon, but Gus was not enjoying the visit to the dreary town this time. His thoughts instead were focused on ancient memories and hatred - for people, for his life - was clouding any enjoyment he could have had today.

Moodily letting out a snort of breath, Gus shifted to his feet and left the saloon, passing by two of his gang members - Harry, who was smoking on the saloon decking, and Slink, who was standing near Harry, his fingers tapping at the wooden railing he was leaning against.

Gus greeted both curtly, Slink returning his greeting with a _hello_ and Harry only acknowledging him with a shift of his eye. Neither looked to be in the mood to talk, which suited Gus well as he left the saloon and his two teammates and approached the Landing's stables. As Gus stepped into the boggy stable his sturdy bay gelding, named Steppe, noticed him, snorted and trotted up to Gus, his muzzle nudging him happily.

As Gus reached up to pet his gelding, his eyes fell on a portly man staring at him, hatred clear in his stance as the man moved to approach him. The man, named James Harris - who owned Thieves' Landing's stables and had a particular hatred for him - mainly because of his dark skin and because of his affiliation with the Bollard Twins Gang, moved to speak but a snarl from Gus stopped the man in his tracks. Gus said nothing to Harris but shot him a murderous glare that caused the cowardly man to back away from him without a word, Harris slinking into the shadows as Gus continued to watch the stable owner with a wary hatred.

Growling to himself, Gus turned back to his horse and soon busied himself with petting the sturdy, reliable gelding, time passing unaccounted as Gus continued to stroke his horse. He had no sense of how long had passed until the distant sounds of grunts, coming from behind the stables, drew Gus' attention away from his horse. But the sounds of the fight only intrigued him for a few moments for he could not see the fight nor its occupants and fights were common place within Thieves' Landing, so he once again resumed tending to his gelding - until he recognized a cry of pain coming from the back of the stable. From the fight.

 _Maurice._

His gelding seemed to recognize the voice too for, with his ears pricked and his body tensing, the bay turned as Gus' focus shifted in the direction of the fight. Another cry of pain - another one Gus knew very well - determined Gus' next action, his strides lengthening as he hurried towards the fight. As he drew closer to the fight he, making as little noise as possible, drew his shotgun and then peeked around the stable corner.

Six unfamiliar men were huddled near the stable wall with three younger men strung around them, all ones Gus knew very well. Laid out on the ground, unconscious and with blood seeping down his face was Charlie, his light skin bruised and swelling. Pinky was struggling to stand as one of the strangers had the dark skinned young man pinned against the stable wall, exhausted fury flickering in Pinky's dark eyes. And then there was Maurice, being forced to stand with two strangers holding him while another one repeatedly punched Maurice in the stomach.

Rage consumed Gus at the sight of his three gang mates - his _family_ \- being attacked as they were. Without a secondary thought Gus walked out of his spot of cover, eyes narrowing as he aimed his shotgun at the closest man to him who was starting to kneel beside Charlie with a knife in hand.

"Do it," Gus snarled, the combination of his voice and the loud sound of him cocking his shotgun snapping the attention of the six men towards him, but Gus gave the men not a chance to react before he pulled the trigger of his shotgun.

One man fell immediately as the others scrambled to find cover, abandoning Gus' three teammates in their rush to escape the blast of Gus' shotgun. Bullets from the strangers guns whizzed past Gus, each shot meeting the sharp retort of his shotgun as he finally reached his three younger teammates.

"Harris' men!" Pinky gasped, his words drawing Gus' ire ever more towards the strangers who were fleeing from the fight, three of their own strewn out on the ground as Gus lowered his shotgun and turned to the three young members of his team.

Pinky and Maurice were catching their breath while Charlie was still unconscious, the youngest of the three not even moving as Gus bent down and shook Charlie's shoulder.

"Cowards bushwhacked us," Maurice explained, his breath still weak from being punched, his head gesturing towards the unconscious Charlie, "they got him with an iron. Surprised us and surrounded Pinky and I 'fore we could act."

"Damned kids," Gus muttered to himself before he turned to face the two conscious Bollards and then gestured towards Charlie, "get him on a horse and let's head back to the Basin."

Maurice nodded in response as he and Pinky picked up their skinny teammate and followed Gus back to the horses. As the four gang members reached their horses, Gus overheard Pinky let out a chuckle and mutter, "reliable old cavalry always savin' our necks."

Maurice snorted under his breath but said nothing in response, and neither member noticed the faint smile that crossed Gus' face at their words, his hands busying with preparing his horse to head home.

* * *

 **He's not my favorite but he's still a Bollard and his loyalty is to his team.**


	6. Loss (Harry Dobbing)

**A small snippet of Harry's backstory I wrote for… ah… RP purposes, haha.**

 **RDR © Rockstar Games**

* * *

It was more the gentle depression of his bed then the soft voice of his mother that woke Harry Dobbing from his sleep, a sleepy yawn escaping his mouth as he stretched and turned to his right where his mother was sitting next to him on his bed, wearing a light blue dress with a gun belt placed snugly on her hips.

"Morning, Harry," she said, her voice soft as she gently ran a hand through his hair and then gave him a small smile. To anyone, his mother - named Victoria - would be considered beautiful even for her average height, with long, braided sun-bleached blond hair that exemplified her sapphire blue eyes and sharp facial features. Her voice was high and softly accented, and she moved with a delicate grace that belied her willful and strong nature. But, to Harry, she was just his mother and he knew her for her gentleness, soft words and loving embrace and that was all he needed to love her unconditionally.

"Morning, mother!" Harry said in return, a smile of his own tugging at his lips as he greeted his mother.

His mother smiled and then removed herself from his bed, though she turned back and gave him a soft kiss on the forehead as she looked down at him. "Get dressed and washed up for breakfast, Harry. Your father has some chores he needs you to attend to right after breakfast, alright?"

"Of course, ma'am," Harry said, "I'll be ready as soon as possible."

"I know you will, love," his mother said as she flashed him another smile and then left his room.

Harry quickly scrambled out of bed as his mother left, hurrying to the small dresser next to his bed to find the clothes he needed for a day's worth of work, and then quickly pulling on his clothes and boots, before he bolted out of his room. It did not take long for Harry to reach the small room that served as both the kitchen and dining room, where his mother and father were already gathered.

"Good morning, sir," Harry greeted his father as he sat at the pine table already loaded with flapjacks, grains, some fruits and vegetables along with eggs and sausages.

"Morning son," his father greeted in turn, brown eyes warm as he gazed down at Harry.

Harry's father, named Lawrence, was well-built with broad shoulders and rough hands that spoke of many years of hard work. His hair was reddish-brown and his eyes a light brown. Harry's father did not smile often, his expressions more suited for looks of concentration or seriousness. But Harry knew that his father loved him and thus he loved his father back, even when his father looked at him with a notable sternness or quietly reprimanded him for a mistake.

His father hadn't always been so serious, Harry realized as his mother began passing the different plates of food around the table, and Harry could only recalled his father being as stern and lacking of happiness since Harry had turned nine years old two years ago. He did not know why and, when he curiously probed into why, his father never explained but for a quiet reassurance that Harry had nothing to worry about. But his father's reassurances only served to make Harry worry further, especially when he remembered the easier, happier man his father used to be.

"Son." The quiet voice of his father snapped Harry from his thoughts and to the gaze of his father.

"Yes, father?" Harry couldn't help but feel a strain of nervousness in his chest as he looked into his father's brown eyes. To his surprise though, Harry saw not sternness but a spark of a challenge in his father's decidedly warm eyes.

"Your mother and I need your help today, Harry," his father began, "and she and I have agreed that it is time you drive the cattle home on your own."

Harry couldn't speak for his surprise as he looked between his father and mother, unsure whether they were joking or not with him. He had been working with his family's cattle for years, but always with his father beside him. He'd never had the chance to herd the cattle all by his lonesome and the idea of such made Harry nervous yet also very excited about the prospect.

"I," Harry hesitated as he tried to find a word to explain his thoughts but, finding little, only nodded, "yes, sir."

"Good," his father smiled, "go fetch them from the far pasture once you finish tending to the chickens please, Harry. And keep an eye on that old spotted cow, you know she's quick to get a mind of her own at any moment."

"I will, sir," Harry reassured, his heart racing with excitement as he quickly devoured his food, to eager with being trusted with such an important task on his own to savor the delicious breakfast his mother had cooked up.

Once Harry finished his meal, he excused himself from the table, cleaned his plate and placed it in the drying rack his mother had made them hurried out the door.

As he reached the door and was about to leave he heard the sharp tone of his mother's voice.

"Lawrence, we can't keep-"

"Not now Victoria." His father's tone was tired, and Harry hesitated leaving the house for a second when he heard his mother quietly soothing his father, but he he had promised his father that he'd drive the cattle home and that's what he was going to do.

* * *

Harry's buckskin noticed the strange men before he did, his attention so fixated on keeping the small herd together that it took the uneasy snorting of his nervous buckskin to draw his attention to his family's house. Standing outside of the house was his father and mother, both of whom he knew were armed, with six men wearing matching dark suits and hats standing just in front of his parents. None of the strangers noticed Harry, and neither did his father, but it was his mother who spotted him and the herd of cattle he was pushing towards home first and he did not fail to see the fear in her expression as she spotted him.

"No! Harry, run! Get out of here!" His mother's shout drew the attention of his father and the six men, one of whom immediately shot at him, the sharp crack of the gun spooking his skittish buckskin and causing it to wheel from underneath him, dropping him to the ground with a hard thud before it bolted away.

Harry scrambled to his feet only to be snatched up by his mother, who had outpaced the other men - including his father - her arms wrapping around him protectively as the six dark clothed men faced Harry and his mother, his father blocking the men from Harry's view purposefully.

"I told them before and I will say it again, we are not selling." The rage in his father's voice scared Harry, his eyes shifting to the broad stance of his father as his mother pulled him behind her, both of whom were staring down the six men.

One of the men, presumably the leader, strode forward. He was tall and very muscular, though not as broad shouldered and stocky as Harry's father, with dark eyes that seemed unreadable and with a trimmed beard. He duped his head to Harry's parents but something about the way the man moved made Harry extremely nervous. "Our allies understand your hesitations, Mr. Dobbing, and they have accepted your proposal already. But they need this land now and we have come to ensure you deed this land to us and our friends properly."

"No. Victoria and I have not changed our opinions on selling our land, especially since your 'allies' never guaranteed us land in lieu of our home here. They expect us to be naive and seek without already having a new home in return laid out? No, we are not selling."

The leader grimaced, the shift of his face displaying a small scar that cut down the right side of his mouth towards his chin, and sighed. "They will arrange a deal with your family, Mr. Dobbing, once you have agreed. You can understand why, right? My friends and I don't want this to go any way but smooth, I swear it. Our client just needs this land and they will pay you back."

Harry's mother spoke next, her anger evident as she glares at the six men. "We know that's not true, both my husband and I and none of you marshals believe it either. We settled here and this is our home, our lifestyle, we aren't giving it away to people like your _client_."

"How unfortunate," the leader sighed, "bring me the child, now."

"What? No!" Harry's father exclaimed as three of the strangers moved towards Harry and his mother, Harry clutching to his mother's legs nervously as his father shoved into the three men coming towards him. "You will not touch my son, you bastards!"

"Then give us your land, Lawrence." The leader of the six uniformed men spat his father's name, his hatred for Harry's father clear as he crossed his arms over his chest and glared into his father's gaze once again.

Harry's father hesitated answering, his gaze turning to Harry before he snapped his attention to the three advancing men and then backed up to Harry and his mother's side."Don't touch our son, Vanderbilt," his father snarled, "he has nothing to do with this."

"Oh," the man - Vanderbilt - scoffed, "but he doesn't, Lawrence. He's as much a part of this problem as you and your wife are. Now, please, just hand over your land and this will all go well for every single one of us present."

Harry's parents exchanged worried looks, his mother's grip tightening on his arm as the three uniformed men continued to hover near them, their eyes ever watchful and unreadable as they observed Harry and his family. Harry's mother subtly shook her head, her eyes narrowing as she shot a glare in the direction of the leader, her voice quiet as she spoke solely to his father. "We can't let them touch Harry, Lawrence… but we can't trust that they won't try and hurt him even if we do give up our home to these bastards."

Harry's father looked down at him, his expression worried as he kneeled down in front of Harry and then put a comforting hand on Harry's shoulder. "If anything happens, son, get out of here, please?"

"But, father, why?" Harry asked, his eyes shifting between the six strangers and his parents. "I can't leave, I have responsibilities here, father."

Harry's father winced at his response, his eyes dark with worry and resignation as he slowly turned his gaze away from Harry. "Dammit Harry," he growled under his breath, gaze turning with fury to the uniformed men.

"We aren't giving up our livelihood for some damned rail line, Vanderbilt," his father hissed, "we told them that for the last two years and we aren't going to change our stance today."

"Fine," Vanderbilt snarled, his mouth curving into a snarl as he spoke, his gaze lingering on Harry for a predatory second with a strange smile clawing at his face.

Before Harry's father or mother could react, the five men with Vanderbilt rushed them, two knocking Harry's father to the ground as two others threw his mother to the ground. Harry bolted backwards but was unable to escape the prying grasp of the last man, whose hand locked around his arm and drug him towards Vanderbilt. Harry thrashed and attempted to throw the man's hold of him off, but the uniformed man was much stronger than Harry and he was unsuccessful in his attempts to escape.

Vanderbilt bent down to face Harry, that same predatory look in his eyes as he reached a hand out and brushed it down Harry's face. Harry shuddered and tried to pull away from Vanderbilt as his mother swore and spat in the background, threatening to kill everyone of Vanderbilt's men if he touched Harry again. Vanderbilt heard her threat but did not acknowledge it as he continued to touch Harry, the man's closeness causing a turmoil of fear and revulsion roiling within Harry's stomach.

"Get your hands off him, you bastard!" The sound of his father's roar drug Harry's attention away from vanderbilt, his eyes shifting to where his parents were both forced to the ground on their knees, his father fighting to release the grips of the two men holding him while his mother was not moving, though her expression was one of complete fury.

Harry's distraction gave him no time to react as Vanderbilt suddenly shoved him to the ground, knocking the air out of Harry as the man held him to the ground, his smile turning into an unnatural, hungry look as he stared down at Harry. Harry thrashed against the man's hold, clawing at his arms desperately as Vanderbilt continued to hold him down, the man far outweighing Harry - who wasn't weak by any means, as years of hard work around his family's small ranch had made the young kid stronger than most boys his age - making his efforts to escape futile.

Harry continued to thrash even as the man held him down, his concentration so focused on attempting to escape that he only faintly comprehended the exchange between his parents and Vanderbilt, who was pinning Harry to the ground using his entire body. Vanderbilt suddenly struck Harry across the face as he struggled, the strike stunning Harry to stillness for a few moments, affording him the chance to realize that Vanderbilt was still holding him down, but that the older man was running his hands along Harry's body in a way that made him extremely uncomfortable.

"Let him go, you bastard!" His mother's snarl ripped through the air as Vanderbilt continued to touch Harry, the older man ignoring his mother completely as he leaned down and rubbed his beard against Harry's face. Harry squirmed and thrashed, attempting to kick the man off him to no avail, Vanderbilt's eyes seeming to darken with ever more hunger as he looked into harry's eyes. Harry continued to thrash and, for each movement he made, Vanderbilt struck him again.

"It's okay, little one," Vanderbilt said, his voice poisonous as he put even more weight on Harry's body, the older man's hands pinning Harry's arms to his side, stopping any attempt Harry could make to escape.

Harry distantly made sense of his father and mother screaming his name as the man continued to press against him, an uncomfortable, unknown feeling tearing through him as the man continued to pin him, his parents screams fading as Harry tried to fight the man on top of him.

"Let him go!" His mother's roar shattered through Harry's concentration, snapping his gaze to where his mother was thrashing like a wild animal, the two men struggling to hold her down as she thrashed.

"Mom?!"

Harry's mother stilled when she heard his cry, her eyes narrowing for a second before she suddenly wheeled on the man closest to her, yanking the man off his feet and throwing him to the ground. His mother snatched the fallen man's gun from the ground and then wheeled the revolver on the second man holding her down. The second man, letting out a cry of shock, tried to jump back but, with the sharp crack of the gun, the man's body fell to the ground near his mother.

With the two men no longer holding his mother down, she charged towards Harry and the man holding him down, firing the revolver at the man holding Harry. Harry heard Vanderbilt grunt in pain and fury as he was hit and, with a roar of his own, Vanderbilt roared, "Kill her!"

"Mother!" Harry's mother never reached him for, with the fury of four guns, she was cut down, her body wavering where she stood, expression still burning with fury before a gout of blood spilled from her mouth and she fell backwards, her body thudding to the ground unceremoniously.

"MOM NO!"

Harry, fueled by rage and fear, fought without abandon, using his mother's costly distraction to his advantage by hooking his legs underneath Vanderbilt and throwing the older man off of him. Vanderbilt wheeled on Harry before he could escape too far and yanked him back towards him, Harry scrambling in the hard sand as Vanderbilt drug him back against his chest, the man placing an inescapable grip on Harry's arm.

"You want to fight back too, Lawrence? Like your whore wife? Or this vermin offspring of yours?" Vanderbilt snarled as he continued to hold onto Harry, mockingly rubbing his beard against Harry's face as he spoke, which almost brought Harry to retch in disgust.

Harry's father was staring at his mother's body, jaw quivering and eyes brimming with tears as he turned and glared at Vanderbilt. "You'll die for touching him, Vanderbilt," his father snarled, "and you'll die for killing my wife. _Bastards_."

"I don't think I'm the one who's going to pay, Lawrence," Vanderbilt said, his voice mocking as he suddenly shoved Harry towards his father. Harry's father scrambled to his feet as Vanderbilt continued to force Harry towards his father, a hopeful glimmer in his father's eyes as Harry was pushed closer to him.

But his father's hope vanished as his gaze suddenly drew above Harry, and it was only the sudden, wordless shout from his father that snapped Harry's gaze back to Vanderbilt behind him. All that Harry would ever remember was a sudden, swift flash of steel and then a blazing, unimaginable pain ripping through his face, through bone and tissue, never seeming to end, a hoarse scream behind him, laughter, shouting - but it was all for naught as Harry stumbled and, with a cloud of darkness swamping his mind, fell to the ground, a terrified shout from his father being the last thing he heard.

* * *

Harry's consciousness returned slowly, his vision a blur of red and brown as his senses returned to him. He could feel fire pulsing throughout the entirety of his body, and he could feel something warm pressing against his cheek - something which was not the hard sand of the desert. He could not move for the soreness in his body and even the smallest attempt to move from his position sent a wave of nausea through his body that caused him to vomit, gasps shuddering through his body as he tried to make sense of his situation.

His vision was still poor but, ever so slowly, it began to improve, though painstakingly slowly as he continued to lay on the ground immobile. One of the first things Harry noticed was that he was laying on his left side in the sand near his family's house, the distant sound of the river the only discernible sound he could pick up. There was no rustling of livestock nor sounds of his parents working, nor even any animals, just the sound of water lapping against the riverbank.

 _Get up_. The command was quiet but clear, the urgency clear and driving Harry to slowly push himself up onto his hands and feet. The moment he did though, he felt another rush of nausea strike him but he forced it back with a growl and continued to hover on his hands and knees until his gaze noticed the red sand that he had been laid out on. But it wasn't red sand, he realized with a twist of his already aching stomach, but blood - _his_ blood - blood that was sluggishly running down the left side of his face. Curious more than afraid, Harry touched the left side of his face, feeling the caked on blood long before his fingers brushed across the ridged, torn skin at his left cheek. As Harry's fingers moved up the brand new wound, he could feel blood and something else where his eye was. An unnatural shiver coursed through Harry's body as he felt his eye some more, stopping when he realized that there was something wrong with his eye. But he couldn't understand what and, with his body still aching, Harry slowly drug himself to his feet.

Harry wavered where he stood, gaze moving slowly around him - he noticed that his vision was exceptionally poorer than the morning - stopping when his gaze landed on a familiar form laying on the ground a ways from him.

"Mother?" His voice was hoarse as he slowly approached his mother, who was laying on her back, head turned away from him, her right arm flopped over her chest, and she was very still. Her blue dress was torn from her legs up, and her shotgun lay near her but out of reach.

Harry bent down beside his mother, gently tugging at her arm as he looked over her. "Mother?" She did not respond to him, neither his tugging nor his voice, which only served to worry him more.

"Mother? Mother?!" Harry yanked at his mother's arm again, but she did not budge and it was only when he leaned closer to her did he see the blood caking the front of her dress. "Mom?! MOM!"

She never responded and, with a sinking heart and tears pulling at his eyes, Harry knew that his mother was dead. No longer would he be able to snuggle next to her or feel her warm embrace nor would he ever get to hear her singing while she cooked or cared for the chickens, and all he had left was to bury his face against her body and cry. Harry clung to his mother's body, his own body shaking as he felt hot tears roll down his face, his arms wrapped around his dead mother's body until he could no longer cry.

"I'm sorry," Harry breathed against his mother's body, a rush of guilt burning through his veins as he looked at the forever still form of his mother. He placed a gentle kiss against his mother's forehead then stood and, head bowed, turned away from his mother. His feet drug as Harry approached his family's small home, an emptiness opening within him as he looked back briefly at his mother's body. Quickly Harry turned away from the sight of his mother's body, only to come to face with the sight of his father's body, naked and mutilated, hanging from the rafters of his home.

Harry could do nothing but stare at his father's body, at the thick rope wrapped around his neck, how his father's musculed and broad shouldered frame seemed almost diminished as it turned in the slight breeze.

"Father…" Harry shook his head quickly and scrambled to find a chair and a knife, finding both quickly and returning to the main room where his father was still hanging. Harry set up the chair near his father and scrambled onto the firm wooden chair, grabbing at the rope wrapped around his father's neck with one hand and the knife in the other, setting to work quickly. Harry cut through the last threads and struggled to catch his father's body, the weight of his father knocking him off the chair and onto the ground, just inches from his father's body. Harry scurried to his father's side and then buried his face against his father's bare chest, unable to cry any longer, and only able to cling and bury himself against his dead father.

Harry did not want to move, he did not even understand why he was still alive yet his parents lay dead before him. But sense returned to the young child slowly and, with another horrified look at his father's mutilated and naked body, Harry hurried to his parent's room, finding a spare set of work clothes his father wore often. Harry returned to his father's body and, struggling for the numbness in his mind and heart, fully clothed his father, the clean clothes almost making it seem like his father was merely asleep. But Harry knew better and he knew he could not leave his parents bodies out to rot. He knew had to bury them.

Finding a shovel, Harry left his house and began searching for a spot to dig two graves deep enough for each of his parents' bodies.

* * *

Harry never knew how long it took for him to dig two graves, about six feet deep in the hard sand, bury his parents and to them make makeshift markers for their graves. All he knew, after he had finally finished was that there was no ability in him left to cry or sob, but only a chasm of emptiness… and rage.

His thoughts had turned to the six marshals - five really, since he had found the body of the marshal his mother had killed laying behind his house - who had come to his home, killed his family, killed his livestock, beaten and forced him, and he had no idea why. But he remembered the faces of each, especially the man with the blonde hair and evil, dark eyes - the man who had beaten and forced him and then stabbed him in the face with a knife - and he realized that what had once been sadness clawing at his throat was a rage, burning, seething rage. A seething rage that fueled a strange feeling of vengeance in his heart.

His gaze shifted to his parents' graves, close together, and dug with great care, and all he could feel was that unnatural rage. Those men had taken his family from him, beaten and mutilated his father, killed and then mutilated his mother's dead body… and then that leader had hurt him.

Rage fueled his next actions as Harry whistles for his buckskin, the loyal horse appearing after a few moments and stopped beside him, it's saddle still on its back. Harry grabbed at the saddle horn and mounted up onto his horse's back, urging it forward, away from his parents' graves. As he headed down the small road, Harry stopped and looked back at his family's small ranch, stopping at his parents graves.

"I'm sorry, Mom. I'm sorry, Dad. I… didn't do enough for you. I… I'm sorry…" Harry turned away from his parents and nudged his horse forward, slumping forward against his animal's neck as his vision swam and his conscious began to darken. He needed help, he knew that… but his mind only lingered on the faces of the five men who had killed his parents and tortured him, rage being the last thing he felt before he slipped from consciousness.

* * *

Harry awoke to pain again, though this pain was more a sore pain then a burning, raging pain from before, his sight returning slowly to reveal a small white tent, empty of anything but a small bureau.

"Mother? Father?" Harry's voice was hoarse and cracked with disuse, his gaze blurry as he looked around the tent. He knew he was not at home… nor was he anywhere he recognized… where was his mother and father? His home?

No one answered his call, a fact that worried him and so he tried to struggle out of the bedding he was curled up into, stopping when he felt his body protest with a burst of fire. Harry winced and squirmed, unused to such pain, let alone _where_ the fiery pain was originating from.

"Easy, young one," a gentle voice soothed, drawing his gaze sluggishly to a lanky man walking into the tent. "You don't want to be moving much, son. Your injuries have yet to heal and I need you to rest for me. Please?"

"Injuries?" Harry asked, "What happened to me?"

"I do not know what happened to you specifically, son, but I found you slumped on the ground aways from here, from Plainview that is, bleeding out. Your eye was damaged beyond repair, and I had to remove it, I'm sorry."

"My eye?" Harry muttered, confused by what the man was saying. At a small gesture to the left side of his face from the doctor, Harry reached up and felt bandages covering the left side of his face and, as he felt the thick bandages, his memories came back in a rush.

"No…" he breathed, his body shuddering as he remembered everything that had happened to his family and himself. He was alone, without the two people he loved the most in his life, and he knew he would not be able to return to his former home. Not after what had happened.

"Son, you need rest. No one is going to bother you here. You are my patient, and the men here respect that. Just sleep young one, you need it."

"Yes sir," Harry sighed. And he would rest as the man ordered, but Harry knew there would never be rest for him, not any longer, not with his mind turning down the path it was. He had to find those five men who had taken his family, home and eye from him.

He'd kill them all.

* * *

 **In the end, revenge did nothing good for Harry...**

 **He's my favorite of the Bollards so yeah... he's got another chapter already. Sorry boys!**


	7. Liar's Dice (Pinky Wilson)

**Thank you, anonymous, for your comments. I really enjoy reading them and I appreciate the time you spend writing the comments you do. Thank you!**

* * *

 **1911**

"Hellfire…" Frustration rolled off Charlie's tongue as Pinky deftly swept the stack of winnings on the box serving as a makeshift table to himself. "I'll never understand what is so enjoyable about poker, Pinky."

Pinky shrugged in response as Charlie continued to mutter something under his breath and then stood from the box he and Pinky had been playing poker on. Charlie sighed and then left, leaving Pinky to thumb through his night's winnings with a smile.

"Thanks for the game," Pinky teased, a small, hidden smile tugging at his lips as Charlie bristled at his comment, the lanky rustler swearing under his breath as he headed towards his tent.

"You should have gone easy on him, Pinky, now he's going to be sulking for the next week." Irvin's voice was light as the older Bollard settled down across from Pinky, his dark eyes sparkling with mirth. Pinky quietly greeted Irvin as the man reached out and picked up a beautifully made leather halter from the makeshift table, his gaze critical as he searched over the halter.

"Oh he's going to be sore for weeks over this one, kid," Irvin laughed as he delicately placed the halter next to Pinky's other winnings. "You know that's the halter he won from that race in New Hanover, correct?"

"He knew," Pinky shrugged, "I gave him the chance to ante somethin' else but he was stubborn. Figure he wanted to beat me so desperately that he stopped thinking."

Pinky's response made Irvin laugh, a knowing smile tugging at his lips. "He's not the brightest but he's well meanin', kid. Be fair next time and challenge him to a horse race, why don't you?"

"And let him win?" Pinky scoffed, "no, not yet. Let him stew for a couple of days on this."

"Smart kid." Irvin leaned back in his chair, arms crossing over his chest as he seemed to stare off into space, his gaze no longer focusing on Pinky.

With the relief of conversation, Pinky let his gaze travel from the assortment of items he had won from his game of poker with Charlie and towards the everyday going ons of the Basin.

Werner was cleaning up the dishes they'd used for dinner, his concentration focused solely on the large pot he was currently scrubbing with intent ferocity. Pinky recalled Werner complaining about the pot and its unruliness to being ever truly clean, but Pinky knew Werner wouldn't be caught dead using a dirty cooking pot, so the youngest Bollard spent hours each day scrubbing the large, cast iron pot as if in a personal war with it. Pinky figured it would be some time before the Basin would echo with the sound of Werner's harmonica.

Across from Werner, sitting near the fire with his hands busily cleaning a rifle, was Slink. Slink seemed far too focused to the maintenance of his gun to really notice anything around him, but Pinky couldn't help but notice the older rustler rub at his white shirt with a quiet growl as a drip of oil from his cleaning rag hit his front. Pinky heard Irvin snort near him and he couldn't help but hide a quiet chuckle too as Slink began complaining under his breath about the new stain on his white shirt.

Pinky looked away from Slink, his gaze passing by Gus taking a drink of water from one of the Basin water barrels, the large black man turning and skulking to his tent once he was finished. Gus was not the friendliest of people, and Pinky routinely had to roll his eyes after a barked comment from the eldest Bollard but he knew that Gus was loyal to the gang and reliable in fights. Didn't mean he couldn't find the older man annoying at times, especially if the gang was playing a round of poker amongst themselves. Gus always found a way to complain and storm off after a losing hand during those matches, even if he was ahead in winnings.

Maurice was sitting outside of the tent he and Charlie shared, his hands unconsciously rubbing through the fur of the small kitten sitting on his lap. Maurice had no words to share as his gaze met Pinky's for a moment, a frown curving down his face for a second before he gave Pinky a silent tip of his hat. Pinky returned the gesture and then looked away from Maurice, gaze stopping on the last two members of the gang.

Harry and Julius were standing away from the majority of the group, talking amongst themselves quietly - though about what Pinky couldn't begin to figure out. Harry's expression was his usual frown, though Pinky could tell that something was obviously bothering Harry by the way his eye kept snapping around the Basin, almost as if he was looking for something. Julius, towering over Harry beside him, seemed angry, his jaw tight and his blue eyes like sharpened flint as he and Harry continued to talk amongst themselves quietly.

It worried Pinky to some degree, even being the laid back person that he was, seeing the two 'leaders' of the gang as bothered as they were by whatever they were discussing. Pinky drew a questioning gaze to Irvin, who had seemed to be watching Harry and Julius just as much as Pinky was, the older man's eyes shifting with a nervous light from the two leaders and back to Pinky.

"They've been talking a lot more often lately," Irvin observed, "but they haven't said a word to Slink, Gus or I about what. I can tell it's something, seein' as even Julius is being cagey like Harry."

"The Twins?" Pinky surmised, "I know Harry's been more and more stressed lately when he gets back from meetings with those two."

"Possibly," Irvin rumbled, "but we know he'll never talk to us about those meetings, Pinky."

"I know that."

Irvin quieted at Pinky's response, worry evident in his eyes and the set of his jaw as he and Pinky continued to watch Harry and Julius talk, Harry now pacing back and forth as Julius' arms crossed over his chest with a frown. Pinky shrugged loosely and then turned his focus to his aged deck of cards, rifling through the cards distractedly.

"Kid?"

"Mhm?"

"You still got those dice sets of yours, kid?"

Irvin's question earned a questioning look from Pinky but, with a wordless shift of his hand, Pinky felt into his brown vest and pulled out a handful of dice. There was just enough die for five players, so long as Pinky was thinking along the lines of Irvin's train of thought.

Irvin nodded at the sight then, without Werner noticing, snatched five cups from the rack of drying dishes, which he placed on the table near Pinky's die sets. Then, with a twist of his back, Irvin turned his gaze towards Harry and Julius.

"Hey gents, care to join Pinky and I in a game of Liar's Dice? It'd be mighty boring with just him and me," Irvin smiled, his expression casual but for the hopeful glimmer in his dark eyes.

Harry and Julius turned their heads towards Pinky and Irvin, Harry's frown still present as Julius gave the dark clothed Bollard a gentle nudge in his ribs and then gestures towards Pinky and Irvin. Harry shrugged and then followed Julius as the large, blonde man approached their table.

"A game wouldn't hurt today," Julius growled as he pulled a chair from where it had been resting, folded against a box near the fire, and sat near the table.

Harry said nothing as he sat, his eye focusing on the die that Pinky began handing out, his thoughts unreadable as he said a quiet, "mighty obliged," in response to the dice and cup given to him.

"Hey," Irvin called, "Maurice? We got a set for one more, you want in?"

Pinky watched as his friend mulled over a response then, with a roll of his eyes, Maurice stood, kitten still in hand and joined them at the table. "Sure."

"Great!" Irvin boomed. "This should be fun, boys! I'll go first and then how about Maurice, Pinky, Harry and Julius? And may the best man win!"

Pinky narrowed his eyes and watched as his four gang mates began shaking their cups of die, watching as each of the four Bollards facing against him placed their cups on the table and peeked at their die. Pinky checked his die briefly - one six, two threes, one four and one five - then glanced to Irvin who was smiling.

"Three sixes."

"Four fives," Maurice grumbled, one hand on the back of the kitten and the other resting on the top of the cup hiding his set of die.

Pinky shrugged and looked towards Irvin as he, boredly, said, "four sixes."

Julius glanced at the group, hesitant for a second before he, with a gruff confidence, offered a bet of three fours.

 _A bit low_ , Pinky mused, but he said nothing to debate Julius' bet, _not yet_.

Harry, whose expression looked bored but his tone seemed confident and almost sneering, said, "eight threes."

"Bluff!" The call came from Irvin almost the second Harry finished speaking, the older rustler shooting Harry a smug look as he did.

Harry shrugged and wordlessly showed his die, revealing zero threes on his five die, but Harry didn't seem to waver as Irvin revealed his die and showed two threes of his own. Maurice had three threes, a fact that seemed to annoy the rustler as he shot Harry a cold look, Pinky revealed his two threes and, finally, Julius revealed his to show one more three.

"Eight threes," Irvin swore, his dark eyes furious as he threw one of his five die into the middle of the table with a glare in Harry's direction to punctuate his annoyance with the dark-clothed rustler. Harry only responded with a faint smile at Irvin's glare as the five rustlers replaced the dice into their cups and shook them.

Pinky played his hand cooly through the next few rounds, only losing a die once when Harry tricked him into calling a bluff on Harry that Pinky was certain Harry was bluffing on. That loss burned in Pinky's mind as they played, his focus sharpening as Irvin then Julius lost their five die, though Maurice was still in the game with three die.

"Three fives," Maurice called, his eyes narrowed as he looked between Pinky and Harry, a wave of anger spiking off of him as Pinky nodded and bet four fives.

"Spot on," Harry declared, his voice as even as it had been from the start of the game. Maurice grumbled something under his breath as he revealed his die, showing no fives from his three dice. Pinky revealed his with a smile in Harry's direction, but Harry's expression never wavered as he looked at Pinky's die, none of which were fives.

 _Got you_ , Pinky thought, but Harry was the one still smiling as he revealed four of his die all with the five side facing up.

"Well swanee!" Maurice swore as he and Pinky threw one each of their die to the middle of the table, a rush of competitiveness burning through Pinky. He wasn't as skilled at Liar's Dice, especially compared to Harry, but that only meant he wanted to win even more than the start of the game. So the three played, Harry finally losing a die on the next round, then Pinky, then Harry again, Maurice, Pinky, then Harry twice more until he, Maurice and Pinky were left with only one die each.

"One two." Maurice's voice was clear as he laid his bet, his dark eyes unreadable as he, and Harry, both turned their gazes to Pinky and Harry, challenging both to provide a rebuttal to his bet.

Harry's easy expression had long been replaced by a cold attentiveness, clearly unaccustomed to losing so many of his die in such a short amount of time, especially since Harry wasn't used to losing at Liar's Dice. So, with seeming hesitation, Harry said a cool, "one six," which was the exact die face Pinky had.

 _Harry could be bluffing or he could have a six also,_ Pinky thought, _he doesn't know that I have a six, but I don't know what Maurice has for certain either. I'll risk it…_

"Spot on," Pinky challenged, already revealing his singular face of six die to Harry, who looked nervous as Maurice revealed his die, which was a four, and then Harry, reluctantly revealed a die of two. Pinky smiled cooly as Harry threw his last die to the middle of the table and, with a curt "good job" to him and Maurice, walked away from the table.

"Nice job kids," Irvin - who had been watching from the back, laughed, "he's not too pleased about losing to you two. Funny to see him lose at this game."

Julius grunted agreement in the background, the two elder Bollards watching as Pinky and Maurice squared off for the last round, Maurice's expression cold to Pinky's lazily bored expression of mild disinterest.

"One five," Maurice growled.

Pinky checked his die - a one - and gave Maurice an easy smile. _He can only be bluffing or be honest and, knowing Maurice, it's likely he's trying to make him believe he is bluffing. Well, I know him too well for that to work._

"Spot on," Pinky called, confident in his choice until he saw the wicked smile cross Maurice's face as his friend revealed his die - _a one_.

"Darn," Pinky muttered as he threw his last die to the middle of the table and, with a shake of his head, gave Maurice a congratulatory nod. "Outsmarted me… pretty good."

Maurice smiled and stood, leaving Pinky to clean up the sets of dice and the cups, his friend not once looking back. But Pinky didn't mind, he just was happy to have had a chance to play with his gang, something that wasn't an all to common venture within the basin. He was used to Charlie and Werner grumbling about how "boring" or "wasteful" they found card games to be, or how Gus would give him a quiet glare that spoke volumes, and how Harry was usually too busy to play with him. Only Irvin or Julius would usually entertain him and that was only if they were not bogged down with work. Pinky wouldn't say it to his gang out loud but he felt happiest with them when a number of them settled down and played a game, be it for fun or for a reward, for Pinky saw the easy way his gang reacted and laughed when they were in the midst of a game.

As Pinky finished cleaning up, something drew his attention to his left, his eyes searching until he found Julius and Harry talking again, just like they had before the game of Liar's Dice. _And there they go_ , he sighed, _no matter what we do, how many games we play or how many scores we find, they'll never change._

 _How can they?_ Pinky realized, _this gang is their family and they have to protect it. I can't understand how much work it would be having to confer with Ike and Willie biweekly, or what it must be to have to only think of everyone else and not themselves. I'm glad I'm not the leader…_

Pinky was about to head away to his tent when he heard Harry's voice call his name. Pinky turned around and stared back at the two leaders of the gang, confused as both approached him, though it was Harry who spoke first.

"Thanks for the game, Pinky," Harry said, "it was fun."

"Yeah," Julius grunted, "I enjoyed playing, even if I lost as stupidly as I did. We should play more often Pinky… right?"

"Uh, yes," Pinky agreed, surprised by Julius' words, "I wouldn't mind playing more games with the gang. The others might too."

"Well, next time we have the chance, just invite us over to one of your games. Okay, kid?" Julius did not wait for a response from Pinky as the large blonde gave him a smile and turned away, Harry hesitating a moment longer before he, with the faintest of smiles, left Pinky to watch his two leaders depart to separate areas of the basin.

Pinky stood and watched for some time, finally smiling to himself before he headed into the tent he shared with Werner - who was sound asleep by now - and settled onto his bed. He had enjoyed the game of Liar's Dice and, as he thought back on Julius' words, he felt a hopefulness rise in his chest. Maybe the gang would finally have some game nights together… before it was too late for them.

* * *

 **Pinky's one of my favorites (I say that about pretty much all of them but Gus, to be fair), and what could I do but write his perspective with the gang playing a game?**

 **Silly poker nerd.**


	8. Harmonica (Werner Cobb)

**Dumb boy Werner is dumb but I love him all the same for it.**

 **RDR © Rockstar Games**

* * *

 **1905**

"Werner." The gentle prod and soft voice of Irvin Pennick snapped Werner from his sleep, the young blonde yawning as he slowly scrambled out of his bedding to face Irvin. The older Bollard was smiling down at Werner and, with a chuckle, the larger man suddenly gave Werner a hard scruffle to his blonde hair with one hand.

"Hey!" Werner protested as he swatted away Irvin's hand, the older Bollard letting out a raucous laugh at Werner's reaction. Werner chuckled in turn at Irvin's infectious laugh, his heart warming at the love glowing in his family member's eyes. He'd only been part of the team for little more than a year and a half - his first human interaction since he was a young child - but Werner already felt an innate closeness to the seven men who had taken him in nearly two years before.

Irvin gestured for Werner again, that ever present smile tugging at his lips as Werner hurriedly shucked a shirt and vest over his frame and followed the older man towards their horses, both of which had been saddled already - clearly done by Irvin. Irvin gestured for Werner to mount his horse - an dun mustang that Harry had gifted to Werner when he'd joined the gang - the young blonde scrambling into the saddle as Irvin did to his.

"Follow me," Irvin said as he turned his bay gelding, named Mateo, away from the basin and urged him into a trot out of the camp. Werner, his mind filled with curiosity, followed after Irvin, his mustang catching up to Irvin's as they left the basin and headed into the ranch they called MacFarlane's Ranch.

Werner felt an unsettled nervousness as he followed Irvin down the road of the ranch, his eyes skittering around for threats. It was no unknown fact that his gang - the Bollard Twins gang as they called themselves - was enemies with the MacFarlane's Ranch due to the gang routinely rustling the MacFarlane's cattle. But, when Werner shot a nervous, questioning look towards Irvin, he only smiled, dark eyes glittering as he slowed his gelding outside of the ranch's general store.

Irvin dismounted his horse and signaled for Werner to do the same before Irvin headed into the general store. Werner could only stare as his friend vanished into the general store, fear starting to choke at his throat as he noticed people watching him, some talking to themselves quietly as they gestured towards him. He had to bolt, he had to get-

"Kid." The gentle, soothing sound of Irvin's voice snapped Werner's mind back to the present, his instinctual fear fading as the older rustler gently but firmly pulled him down from his saddle. "Stick with me, okay, kid?"

Werner nodded vigorously and dutifully followed Irvin into the store, gaze shifting around the general store. The ranch's general store was much different from that at Thieves' Landing, more vibrant in color and products and it did not stink of silt and mud as Thieves' Landing's did. Werner liked it, though he still glanced around furtively, wary of the few people inside the general store, all of whom were browsing wares.

"You can look around if you want, kid," Irvin assured, "I'm just here to pick something up from our lovely shopkeeper here, but I'll buy you something if you want it."

"No," Werner said, punctuating his word with a firm shake of his head. Irvin nodded and approached the shopkeeper, offering the man a nod in greeting.

"What do you need, _sir_?" The shopkeeper growled, his unfriendly tone setting Werner on edge, though Irvin did not seem bothered by the clear attempt at a threat the shopkeeper was making.

"I am here to pick up a package for Irvin Pennick," Irvin said calmly, a smile tugging at his lips as he leaned on the counter with one arm.

The shopkeeper glared at Irvin but relented, nodding stiffly before he bent down behind his counter and, moments later, appeared again with a small package, wrapped in brown paper. "Here is your package, Mr. Pennick, that will be twenty dollars, _sir_."

"Of course," Irvin said as he pulled out the sufficient amount for the package and handed it to the shopkeeper, smiling the whole time - a fake smile, Werner noted though. The shopkeeper counted the money Irvin proffered suspiciously, constantly checking on Irvin, as if he suspected that the rustler was shorting him of money - or just didn't trust Irvin, Werner realized.

Irvin noticed but only smiled ever more as the man finally finished counting his money and pushed the package towards Irvin. "That was the right amount, sir," the shopkeeper grumbled unhappily. "You have tour package, now leave, please, we don't cater to rustlers at this ranch."

Irvin chuckled darkly at the man's response, tipping his hat as he snatched up the package and turned his back on the shopkeeper, signaling for Werner to follow him. "Have a good day, _sir_."

The shopkeeper spluttered in response as Irvin and Werner left the store, both mounting their horses and then spurred away from the store, headed back to the basin. It only took the two rustlers a few minutes to reach the basin, all the while Werner curiously wondering what was in the package Irvin had bought and slipped into his saddlebag. As the two slowed their horses, dismounted and untacked their horses, Werner couldn't help but stare at Irvin, his eyes saying the words Werner couldn't.

Irvin, noticing Werner's expression, smiled and then pulled out the package then held it out to Werner. "It's yours kid," Irvin said as he put the package in Werner's hands, "Harry and I thought you might like it."

Werner stared at Irvin, unsure of what to say or how to say anything as he slowly tore the brown packaging off to reveal a beautiful wood box that, when Werner opened, revealed a small yet beautiful harmonica. Shocked, Werner could only stare at Irvin as the older man smiled and the gave Werner a hard rub on the head with one hand.

"I saw you watching me play that for quite some time, kid," Irvin laughed, "and, when I talked to Harry, we both decided it was high time we got you a harmonica for yourself. Sort of a delayed 'welcome to the gang' gift, if you want to see it-"

Werner did not let Irvin finish talking before he, to Irvin's surprise, lunged forward and hugged Irvin, the older man unable to speak as Werner said a very quiet, "thank you."

* * *

 **Werner, if one hangs out at Pike's, plays the harmonica nearly constantly, so...**


	9. Justice (Slink Bradshaw)

**What can I say but that I enjoy hurting my boys? This is just a "fun" little AU where the marshals assault on Pike's Basin actually was successful - because it most assuredly was not in RDR.**

 **RDR © Rockstar Games**

* * *

 **1911**

Blood seeped through Slink's hands as he attempted to stem the flow of blood pouring from the young man's chest, the dying man's green eyes flickering with pain.

"Slink," Charlie gasped, "I'm scared..." Charlie coughed, blood spilling down his mouth as the young rustler's body shuddered, his brown hair matted with sweat.

"It's okay, Charlie, I'm still here with you. There's nothing to be afraid of," Slink assured the dying young man, his heart breaking at the weak attempt at a smile Charlie made. The gang had been ambushed by a posse of bounty hunters and lawmen in the basin, an attack Slink and the eldest members of the gang knew would happen eventually, but they hadn't expected _this_. There were more men than Slink could count, and the posse had come right at dusk with the dying light making it near impossible for Slink and his gang to find where the men were shooting from. They'd been ambushed and scattered and Slink feared what such could mean for the rest of his gang.

The gang had fought and, judging from the furious reports of rifles echoing throughout the canyon, still were fighting, but Slink had stopped when he'd seen Charlie gunned down. He'd hoped he could do something for the young man but Slink knew, from the thoroughly blood soaked shirt that was once blue and how strained Charlie's words were, that he would not be able to do anything for Charlie. A fact that bored into Slink's heart and left a chasm of regret and disgust deep in his soul - Charlie had annoyed Slink constantly, and Slink had threatened the kid many times that he would not miss Charlie if something happened to the young man… and now here lay Charlie, dying, with only Slink beside him.

Charlie let out a broken cough, his hands clutching at the three rifle shots that had torn his chest open as blood continued to seep out of his mouth and chest wounds, his green eyes fading ever more quickly. The young rustler attempted to speak but his words were taken from him as a hacking cough tore through Charlie's body, leaving him breathless and even weaker than moments before.

"Charlie…" Slink was unable to hide the hurt in his words as he placed a gentle hand on the lanky rustler's shoulder, Charlie's eyes watching him weakly as Slink's gaze traveled back to Charlie's injuries. "I'm sorry…"

"It's okay…" Charlie wheezed and, with a final, rattling breath, Charlie lay still, his green eyes lifeless, his body still and ripped of its boundless energy. Slink ducked his head and gently pulled Charlie's lifeless body into a final, aching hug - a hug that was interrupted by a round of shots that sounded unnervingly close to where he and Charlie were.

Scrambling to his feet hurriedly, Slink snatched up the rifle he'd laid near Charlie earlier and then took Charlie's ebony double-action revolver from where it had fallen when Charlie had taken the three rifle shots to his chest, wanting the extra gun in case his situation only worsened than it already was. Slink looked back at Charlie's body one last time then bolted away from the gunfire, gaze snapping behind him to where three lawmen were charging towards him.

Slink swerved and ducked behind a small tree, waiting for the frantic sounds of the three men to slow and soften. The three men had slowed and were looking around warily, the lead man stopping and bending down by a rock.

"Did you actually see anyone before you shot, Dillard or are you being a fool again?" The leader of the three snapped, his gruff voice dripping with angered sarcasm.

One of the men, a stocky young man who looked like he was just barely pushing eighteen, let out an angry snort at his leader's words. The one called Dillard, clearly. "I- I did see one of those rustlers up here, I'm sure of it Mr. Burrack. I saw him for a moment, I know he was up here, I know it, sir!"

"I have my doubts about that Dillard," the third man laughed, "we've likely killed all of those stupid rustlers by now. Nothing much else to find for us but dead bodies."

Dillard glowered at the third man, anger tightening the man's grip on his rifle. "Shut up, Marvin."

Marvin opened his mouth to retort when, with crack like thunder in the eerily quiet canyon echoed against the walls. The three men immediately ducked behind a large rock and glanced towards the source of the sound, Slink looking in that direction also. _It could be one of my gang…_

But Slink did not see anything, nor did the three men, for a few minutes and, when no more sound was heard, Slink knew there was likely no one in his gang left alive. _Except me… and I can't stick around here_.

His mind decided, Slink turned and began to quietly scurry away from the three lawmen, though an agonized scream he recognized like his own stopped him in his tracks. _It was one of his family_. Another scream, followed by laughter and then yet another scream of pain - all coming from where he'd left only a minute or two ago - punctured the air.

Gripping his rifle and Charlie's handgun, Slink scurried back up the small slope, stopping near the tree as he focused on a number of men, including the three from minutes earlier, all circled around a lone figure. The figure rose to his hands and knees slowly only to be booted down instantly by one of the five new men, the set of his shoulders displaying the joy the man was getting out of torturing Slink's friend. Slink watched, judging the readiness of his enemies, how many he could take out, if he could save his friend and himself, and felt his heart sink.

He was the best shot of the team, but even Slink couldn't take on eight men alone and live. He wasn't foolhardy enough to even try and convince himself of such a feat. And so Slink watched and scrambled for a plan, all the while watching his friend struck down repeatedly, each time followed by laughter. After another kick sent his friend sprawling and wheezing, Slink knew he had to act and fast.

Snatching up a rock with his right hand, Slink flung the hard object as far down the canyon - towards the main basin - as he could. The rock struck, bringing with it a clatter of other rocks that snapped the attention of the eight men away from Slink's friend. Three scampered towards the disturbance, leaving Slink with only five he had to take care of himself.

 _Act now_.

Hesitating no longer, Slink fired, his first bullet hitting home in the back of one man's head. The man stumbled for a second then fell, his companions staring, horrified and immovable. Just the distraction Slink needed.

Levering another round into his Henry rifle, Slink's next two bullets struck home into the back of one man, hurtling him to the ground in a puff of red mist. But now his enemies had recovered and, due to the fire that erupted from his rifle's barrel being visible in the darkness of night, knew where he was.

Bolting from his position, Slink ran, fear and adrenaline urging his body to _run_ as bullets whizzed past him. Finding a rock he could take cover behind, Slink slid behind it, his boots scrambling in the slick dirt as he laid fire down on the four men closest to him. One bullet of his tore through one of the men, throwing him off the ledge with a scream of pain. But Slink did not notice as he continued to fire, his rounds finding their marks even as he felt a bullet slash through his shoulder. Gasping in pain, Slink scrambled out from the rock and hurtled back to where his friend had been captive.

Slink expected to see his friend dead but, to his surprise, he recognized the dark form slumped against a rock, a rifle laid across his lap as three bodies lay near him.

"Hey!" Slink called, his call snapping his friend's head in Slink's direction as he skidded down beside his friend.

It did not take Slink long to recognize the weak smile and beige coat of Irvin, the older rustler gasping with ever shortening breaths as Slink stared at him.

"They already got Gus," Irvin wheezed, "Werner too. I didn't see anyone else…"

"Charlie's dead," Slink said hurriedly, "but we need to get out of here, Irvin. Others will be coming with all of the commotion we made. Come on!"

Slink grabbed at Irvin and yanked his friend up from where he was slumped, only for Irvin's legs to fail the moment Slink let go of him, sending Irvin crashing to the ground. Irvin coughed and pulled himself up against the rock again, a wry, weak smile parting his lips.

"They got my back," Irvin chuckled lightly, "I'm done, Slink. I can't go with, Slink. You get out of here. I'm going to fight it out to the end."

"No!" Slink protested, "Dammit Irvin, no! Don't be stupid, please! There's a doctor who can help you in Thieves' Landing-"

Irvin's growl, sharp and punctuated as it was, cut off the rest of Slink's words, drawing his gaze to his friend, his _dying_ friend. Blood had soaked through Irvin's pants, coming from a hole in his stomach that showed bone, tissue and muscle.

"Irv," Slink gasped, "don't, please…"

"You know the truth, Slink. Now get. Find the others. Help them get out. Please…"

With a shuddering gasp, Irvin's eyes closed and his chest failed to rise again. Desperate, though he knew his friend was dead, Slink grabbed at Irvin's shirt, trying to wake the once lively and sarcastic man, but there was nothing. Irvin was gone.

Wiping away the tears that burned at his eyes, Slink bolted from his friend's body, heeding his own earlier warning as he ran down the canyon, back towards the basin. He knew of a spot he could lie low for a few days, recover from his injuries and wait out the bounty hunters and lawmen so he could find the last of his friends - if only he could get there.

 _Gus, Werner, Charlie and Irvin,_ Slink counted as he ran down the canyon, headed north towards the Redemption Mountains, _please let the rest-_

Slink's thoughts were cut off when he felt burning hot steel slash through his leg, throwing him to the hard canyon floor violently. Gasping in pain, Slink wheeled around, revolver cocked to defend himself until a boot slammed into his chest.

"Slink Bradshaw." The voice of the man who'd shot and pinned him was cold but triumphant, the man's eyes sparkling even in the dark, night-thickened shadows of the canyon walls.

Slink thrashed and squirmed, desperate to escape until the man pinning him bent down close to his face and pressed a revolver against his chest. Fear rose in Slink, clenching his throat as the man cocked his revolver and-

"Hey, prairie chicken!" The shout, high and furious, snapped Slink and the man's attention to the muscular form of Harry charging towards them, his Bolt Action rifle screaming the fury of its owner four times, all four shots hitting their mark and hurling the man off of Slink.

"Harry!" Slink gasped, never more happy to see his one-eyed companion than he was right at that moment.

"We have to go, Slink!" Harry barked as he thrust Slink's rifle into his hands and bolted down the canyon. Slink stared after Harry for a moment than followed suit, catching up to his friend quickly as they raced out of the canyon.

Only when they were clear of the canyon and in a thicket of trees did Slink and Harry slow to a stop, Harry slumping against a tree with a wheeze of agony that snapped Slink's attention to his dark-clothed friend.

"Harry?" Slink questioned as he watched his friend drop his rifle on the ground - something Harry would never do unless he was truly hurting - and then, with a pained sob cracking Harry's voice, the man slid to the ground, his back still pressed against the tree.

Slink hurried to his friend's side, his hands instinctively moving to his injured friend's chest, which was warm and sticky with blood. Harry's vest, shirt and pants were soaked thoroughly with blood and, when Slink looked closer at his friend, he could see blood pouring down Harry's face, his friend's dark red hair matted with sweat and blood.

"Harry…" Slink's words had little emotion but disbelief left in them as he felt his injured friend's broad shoulders quake in agony.

Harry coughed up a gout of blood that left his mouth and chin stained red, his single eye sluggish in movement as Harry gave Slink a weak, apologetic look.

"I'm sorry, Slink," Harry coughed, "I failed… again… Maurice escaped… we lost Pinky…" Another hacking cough interrupted Harry, his words leaving a hollow pit in Slink's stomach. _There's only three of us now…_

"Julius… tell him I'm sorry… find him… I… I… I'm sorry…" Harry shuddered, his hands clenching as a single tear streaked down his face, his pain, fear and guilt only serving to further deepen the chasm of agony clawing at Slink's heart.

Harry continued to apologize to Slink even as his voice lost its high thrum, the rustler's face streaked with tears and blood. Slink gently brushed his bandanna across Harry's face, his own eyes burning with encroaching tears.

"It isn't your fault, Harry. It never was," Slink said softly just as he felt Harry suddenly make a jerking movement for his- _Harry's_ _holster?_

It only took Slink a moment to realize what Harry was intending to do, the injured man's revolver drawing towards his own chin. Lunging forward, Slink wrestled the revolver from Harry's hand, shoving the weapon as far from Harry as Slink could make it go.

"Harry," Slink gasped, his arms wrapping around Harry in a tight hug. But Harry didn't return the hug and, only seconds after, did Slink realize that his revolver had been yanked from its holster.

But this time Harry wasn't aiming his revolver at himself, the rustler's revolver snapping with fury behind Slink, gasps of pain and screams of death echoing from behind Slink. Slink wheeled around, his eyes widening at the sight of a man's body laid out in the trees behind Slink, then to Harry, his revolver smoking as he lowered Slink's gun to his side.

"You saved me," Slink commented, "twice.."

But Harry did not hear Slink's stunned words, his eye fixated on nothing, his mouth cracked in a concentrated snarl, his body stiff in death. Shaking his head furiously, Slink gently stroked his dead friend's cheek before he took the revolver Harry had slipped from Slink's revolver and, with a final look at his friend and then the canyon, Slink headed up towards the mountains.

* * *

Slink awoke to the softest of breezes, his duster coat - which he had not taken off before falling to a restless sleep the night before - flapping weakly in the wind. Stretching, Slink pulled himself to his feet, his heart settling only when he felt the rifle right in his grip and the holster and gun belt strapped around his waist.

He had to get back to the basin.

Slink never knew what got him to the basin but it did, his feet dragging as he stopped in the main basin. His eyes settled on the dark, still form of Gus, the man's body nearly torn in half by the power of a shotgun. _Ironic_ , Slink thought tiredly as he passed by Gus' body, his gaze falling next on the young, blonde form of Werner. Werner had been shot through the eye, the young man never having been given the chance to react to the ambush. And, only a few feet from Werner's body lay the muscular form of Pinky, the young man looking almost peaceful in how he'd fallen.

"I'm sorry, all of you," Slink apologized. "I'll make it up to all of you."

And so, with his promise laid, Slink set to the difficult task of burying his six friends. Slink would never know how long it took him to find the bodies of his fallen friends, dig appropriate graves for each above the canyon looking down into the basin, and then burying the six dead men. All Slink knew, at the end of it all, was that his heart aches and his mind was black of anything but loss. Looking down at the six graves, Slink shook his head and turned, only to face the gentle but pained blue eyes of Julius.

"Julius," he breathed, "they're gone."

"I know," Julius said, his voice shockingly gentle for what had transpired in the last twenty four hours - including the death of the blonde man's best friend. But Julius did not seem to let his thoughts linger for too long for, with a gentle tug on Slink's arm, Julius began directing him away from the canyon.

"Let's go get Maurice."

* * *

 **It hurts to hurt my boys…**


	10. Blackwater (Irvin Pennick)

**This one took so long to write... Irvin is a tricky man to get into the head of, much more so than any of the others so far.**

* * *

 **1911**

"I loath Blackwater." Gus' snarl voiced the sentiments of the rest of his gang, Irvin agreeing with the sentiment of his friend with a low growl.

The gang were in Blackwater to meet the leaders of their gang, Ike and Willie Bollard, at their home to discuss "business" as the Twins called it. "Business" meant the gang having to deal with the scrutinizing gazes of their twin leaders and all that came with those gazes, including propping questions about the gang's status and an unnerving private discussion with the Twins and all of Irvin's friends one at a time.

Irvin knew his friends hated visiting the Twins in Blackwater for many reasons, some reason he knew and some he didn't - one complaint Irvin couldn't help but mildly chuckle at was the fact that his gang had to "dress up" when visiting the Twins. It always provided Irvin a chuckle when he saw Charlie or Werner walking around awkwardly in their best dress clothes, watching as Gus, Julius and Maurice would complain about the clothes they wore but once or twice every few months, or seeing how flustered Harry got in clothing that drew even more attention to himself than his regular clothes or eyepatch did. But, truthfully, that was only a mild balm to the utter fury and rage Irvin harbored within him for Ike and Willie Bollard.

"We're here," Julius snarled as Irvin and the rest of his gang stopped in front of a nondescript house where the Twins lived, hiding in plain sight from their enemies. Irvin frowned deeply as he followed the rest of his crew to the door of the house, Harry stepping forward and knocking on the door.

A few minutes passed before Irvin recognized the sound of the many deadbolts and locks that held the door from any threats unlocking, the door finally creaking open to reveal the cold grin of Willie Bollard. "Come in," he growled as the younger of the two twins held the door open wide and gestured for Irvin and his gang inside.

Julius headed in first, though Irvin hesitated a moment as he stepped into the house, hatred fueling the glare he sent Willie. Willie, like his twin brother Ike, was tall - about six feet and three inches - with sun-bleached blond hair and piercingly bright arctic blue eyes that accented the Twins square jaws and sun-darkened skin. Unlike his brother, Willie's jaw sported the dusting of a blond stubble and, aside from the deeper tenor of his voice, was the only defining feature, along with a thin scar that cut across his jaw, between Willie and his twin.

Of the two brothers, Willie was the one Irvin hated the most, a sentiment that Willie clearly shared as both men's glares spoke the volumes of words each held for the other without either saying a word. Finally relenting with a tight nod, Irvin walked past Willie, heading down the hallway to the house's living room where the rest of his gang was already set in on the various pieces of furniture placed so carefully about the room. Irvin strode up to where Harry was sitting on a chair, his arms draped over the back of the chair, his one eye glowing with a far off look. Irvin pulled a chair out and placed it beside Harry, his arms crossing over his chest as he sat and leaned his back against the chair, rage aboil within his chest as Willie walked into the living room, a crooked smile broad on his face.

"Mornin' boys," Willie said as he settled into an armchair across from Irvin and his gang, Willie's eyes sparkling with arrogance and irritation as he looked upon his gang.

"Morning." Harry was the only one to return Willie's greeting and, in the silence that followed Harry's instinctive response, Irvin could have sworn that he saw Harry's broad shoulders hunch and his fingers tighten slightly on the back of the chair.

Willie ignored the limited response, his eyes focusing on Irvin for a split second longer than normal before turning to Julius, who was considered a leader within the gang - a fact the Twins both knew. "I know y'all aren't fools, hell, most of y'all are pretty smart admittedly, and I'm sure none of you have missed what that new gang that took over Fort Mercer is up to. Correct?"

"Correct," Julius growled.

"Thought so," Willie rumbled, "that's good-"

"Willie." Ike's voice, as calm as still water, cut off his brother's words as the handsome twin stepped into the living room. Irvin couldn't help but glare at Ike as he stopped beside the armchair his brother had settled into, Ike seeming satisfied with standing.

"Brother," Willie muttered in response, his gaze shifting to the floor as Ike turned and looked down at Irvin and his gang.

"My brother and I have been hearing whispers of this gang, led by some fool called Bill Williamson, trampling all along New Austin. Have any of you seen their men around Hennigan's Stead?"

"Not that we know of," Harry said, "but we can take care of ourselves, Ike, we know what to do if we do find any of those men on our territory."

"No!" Willie snarled, his sudden bark unexpected, least of all by Harry who flinched and shrunk back, his gaze falling to the ground as a nearly imperceptible shake quaked his shoulders.

"Do _not_ shoot them," Ike hissed, "we do not want that gang as our enemies you fool. We have met up with that crazy fool Williamson already about partnering our two gangs up-"

" _What_?! Are you insane?" Julius barked, "we don't-"

"Would you rather we fight against that gang, Julius?" Willie growled. "Williamson's men will slaughter everyone of you and think nothing of it! Even Ike and I don't want this but that gang will _kill_ all of us if we fight against them! Don't be stupid for once in your life, Julius!"

"Since when did you care about us?" Irvin suddenly growled, "seems awful odd for either of you to suddenly show some semblance of feeling for the men who do all of the work for you. Neither of you ever cared, nor do you, you are just protecting your 'assets' by agreeing to peace with this Williamson gang."

Ike and Willie both looked at Irvin, neither's expression readable until Ike suddenly shook his head and let out a deep, drawn out sigh. "We do care. We want to work with these outlaws just as much as any of you, but it's the only choice we have."

"If you _cared_ you would never have touched my daughter," Irvin snarled, rage drawing him to his feet and curling his fists. He wanted so badly to destroy these two men that had such control over his life, yearned to feel their lifeblood leak upon his hands but the slightest of pressures on his arm drew Irvin from his thoughts and to the deeply concerned gaze of Harry.

"Don't," Harry urged quietly, his high voice soothing the fury within Irvin's heart. _For now_.

Irvin looked away from Harry's gaze but, that brief touch, quiet voice and urgent look had done what was intended, Irvin bowing his head irritably towards the Twins. "If that is what you want then."

The Twins and their gang spoke for a few more minutes, Irvin never once raising his voice even as Julius and Harry were called to speak privately with Ike and Willie. He knew to bide his temper, the time wasn't right yet. He had-

"Father!" Arms wrapped around Irvin's chest, drawing his gaze to the young woman hugging him.

"Serafina," he breathed, his words strained as he hugged his daughter to himself with an unspoken love and fear.

"I missed you," Serafina whispered, "Willie's been rougher then usual of late… and mother has done nothing to stop him."

Irvin tightened his grip on his daughter, unable to speak for the anger that clawed at his throat as he buried his face into his daughter's jet black hair. _Soon, Serafina, soon, I will save you..._

* * *

 **Ike and Willie use Irvin's daughter - and his wife - as leverage against him leaving the gang or turning on the gang. They keep their enemies close… but maybe too close.**


End file.
